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Bonk • H L _ 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 

















* 













SO SAYS THE PRESS 

THE BULLETIN, San Francisco, Calif. 

Detective Nick Harris has captured some of the biggest criminals 
of the country. He knows the genus “crook” from every angle of 
the police and detective game. He is familiar with the vagaries 
of the moron, the lesions of the confirmed offender, and the lapses 
of the professional delinquent. Some of the most thrilling and 
fascinating of his experiences are embodied in this series. 

THE EVENING HERALD, Los Angeles, Calif. 

There is humor and pathos in these stories—bits of lights and 
shadows culled from the great stamping ground of the criminal 
offender. They are tales that are rooted below the “deadline” of 
social approval. Some touch the highest strata of society and 
others dip to the lowest depths. Many of these stories have never 
before been given to the public. 

THE TRIBUNE, San Diego, Calif. 

The life of a real detective; his daily experiences, the tales he 
is told; the facts he uncovers; the garish, sordid, startling and 
peculiar phases of life with which he comes in contact, form the 
most fascinating reading in the world. 

THE TELEGRAM, Long Beach, Calif. 

If you have sat spellbound with Sherlock Holmes, breathlessly 
tense with Monsieur Lecoq, keenly thrilled by Gaborieau, enthralled 
by Anna Katherine Green, and intrigued by Mary Roberts Rine¬ 
hart, you will be gripped by the stories of Nick Harris. 

THE POST, Pasadena, Calif. 

The stories of Nick Harris are true bits of real life, uncovered 
by the spotlight of official inquiry. 

THE ENTERPRISE, Riverside, Calif. 

They are real detective stories. You will like them. 

Published by 

The TIMES-MIRROR Press 
Los Angeles, Calif. 


SO SAYS THE PUBLIC 


FRANKLIN SWART, 

Secretary, District Attorneys’ Association of California. 

I am very much interested in your book which you are about to publish 
on the subject, “Why Crime Doesn’t Pay.” Perhaps the most shocking fact 
of my experience as a prosecutor is that our criminals are growing younger 
and younger, and your stories seem to sift the wheat from the chaff and 
point out to the growing young man and woman the moral and fundamental 
and are most attractive and readable stories for our boys and girls. 

J. WHITCOMB BROUGHER, D.D., 

Pastor, Temple Baptist Church, Los Angeles, Calif. 

Detective Nick Harris tells us in an interesting and gripping way “Why 
Crime Does Not Pay.” He speaks with authority for he has had a wide 
experience in dealing with the characters of the underworld. His illustra¬ 
tions are from life and they show very clearly the folly of seeking wealth or 
happiness through crime. His stories furnish a striking illustration of the 
age long text, “Be sure your sin will find you out.” He proves conclusively 
that “the wages of sin is death.” His stories are more interesting than a 
novel for they are the “real thing.” 


FRED MEYER, 

Organizer, B. M. S. Boys’ Club, Los Angeles, Calif. 

I hear that you are contemplating publishing a book of Real Detective 
Stories. I want to go on record as saying that would be one of the finest 
things that you could do for the Younger Generation. 

J. BROMLEY OXNAM, 

Pastor, Church of All Nations, Los Angeles, Calif. 

Detective Nick Harris delivered lectures to our boys upon the theme, 
“Why Crime Doesn’t Pay.” He reached into the heart of the underworld 
and brought forth stories that left one impression upon the minds of our 
boys: namely, that crime is a losing game, and that uprightness is the only 
course one should pursue. I hope every boy may get this message from 
his book. 


CLINTON J. TAFT, 

Pastor, Plymouth Congregational Church, Los Angeles, Calif. 

I hope every mother and father can secure a copy of this great work to 
read to their children. A lesson is taught that will be lasting. An impres¬ 
sion will be made on the youth in a fashion that will hold his interest, as 
these detective stories are told by one who knows of the dangers and pitfalls 
that surround the child. 


J. LINCOLN BLAKE. 

Scout Executive, Boy Scouts of America, 

Old Baldy District Council, Pomona, Calif. 

It is with a great deal of pleasure that I am writing to let you know how 
much our men as well as myself appreciated your address, “Why Crime 
Doesn’t Pay.” You are to be congratulated for having made possible such 
a valuable piece of inside information on the subject of Crime. If you suc¬ 
ceed in publishing a book on “Why Crime Doesn’t Pay,” I shall be only too 
glad to boost it as well as recommend it to all of my co-workers as well as 
my friends. 


JOHN F. HUBER, 

Pres., Los Angeles Automobile Trade Association, Los Angeles, Calif. 

I just cannot begin to tell you how much good you can do and are doing; 
our men as well as myself appreciated your address, “Why Crime 
Doesn’t Pay.” I sincerely hope that you will compile a book on this sub¬ 
ject as it would do a tremendous lot of good and would have a tendency I 
believe, to curtail crime. 


GEORGE NEILL, 

Program Director, KFI, Radio Central Station of Earl C. Anthony Inc 
Los Angeles, Calif. ’ 

It is with pleasure that I recommend to all of our listening public, your 
new book, Why Crime Doesn’t Pay,” as I think it will spread the message 
into the heart of the underworld and burn the seed of crime therein 
DR. MAURICE SMITH, 


Vice Pres., B’Nai Brith Lodge, Los Angeles, Calif. 

Your new book. Why Crime Doesn’t Pay,” should prove of great educa¬ 
tional value to the. boys and girls of today in showing them the folly of 
leading a life of crime. 









7 

IN THE SHADOWS 

* 

Thirty Detective Stories 

SHOWING 

“Why Crime Doesn’t Pay” 

' ( 

A Series of Famous Cases 


BY 

Detective Nick Harris 

»* 



Los Angeles 

The TIMES-MIRROR Press 
1923 

e 0 f 5 ^ 


HV'IW 

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QjCrW-^ r ^ 


Copyright, 1923 , by 
Nicholas Boilvin Harris 
Los Angeles, Calif. 


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NOV 22 *23 </ 


©C1A759057 



'Vi 0 'V 


Dedicated to My Wife, Mary Martin Harris, 
on Her Birthday, April 27 , 1923 


AS A BEACON LIGHT SHINES A WARNING TO SHIPS 
IN TROUBLED WATERS, JUST SO WITH THIS SERIES OF 
STORIES DO I WISH TO GUIDE THE MINDS OF OUR LESS 
FORTUNATE FELLOW BEINGS. 


PREFACE 


N the early part of 1922, a representative of the Los 
A Angeles Chamber of Commerce called at my office in 
that city, and wanted me to place an exhibit at the Pageant 
of Progress to be held in July of that year in the City of 
Los Angeles and which was to be given under the auspices 
of the local Chamber. 

I wondered just what sort of a display a detective 
agency could place before the public that would be not 
only interesting, but educational as well. It then occurred 
to me that if I could present to my audiences something 
that would serve as a warning to the unsuspecting public, 
I could, perhaps, render my bit in fighting the crime wave 
then sweeping over the country, and show the younger 
generation just “Why Crime Doesn’t Pay.” 

Hence, from my office records I secured the official 
news pictures of three of the most important criminal 
cases, our office had been connected with, particularly the 
famous “Bluebeard Watson Murder,” the “Withered 
Kidnapping Case,” and the celebrated “Trunk Bandit” 
affair. 

In each of these cases I was able to show the public 
a great moral lesson, as well as forewarn the individual 
of the absolute fallacy of committing crime. 

As a result various chambers of commerce through¬ 
out Southern California requested me to install the same 
exhibit in their respective exhibitions or county fairs, they 
afterwards presented. 

Later, I was approached by many pastors of the lead¬ 
ing churches, secretaries of various Rotary, Advertising, 


Lions, Kiwanis, Exchange, Mutual and other civic clubs, 
to speak before their congregations and luncheons on the 
subject, “Why Crime Doesn’t Pay.” Then came a re¬ 
quest from Mr. George Neill, program director KFI 
Radio Central Station of Earle C. Anthony, Inc., located 
on the Packard Bldg., Los Angeles, to broadcast these 
stories each Wednesday night. 

For some years past I had contributed to the press of 
California many detective stories, each of which dealt 
with this subject. All of this resulted in hundreds of 
queries, letters, and personal requests being sent and made 
to me to compile a book that would more forcibly bring 
before the world the message I was trying to give, “Why 
Crime Doesn’t Pay.” 

It is now with great pleasure that I have at last ful¬ 
filled my promise to these friends and submit my offerings 
to the end that my readers may enjoy them, and that some 
material good may be derived by the youth of after years, 
that they may profit from the mistakes of those who have 
Paid the Price of transgressing the laws of God and man. 

Yours for the better boy and girl, 

Nicholas Boilvin Harris. 


THIRTY 

DETECTIVE STORIES 

PAGE 

1. The Confession of a Master Burglar. 11 

2. The Suffering of the Innocent. 18 

3. Fight Crime With Advertising. 25 

4. Mabel’s Mistake. 30 

5. The Stockdale Murder. 35 

6. The Calling of Johnny MacRay. 42 

7. The Secret Cipher. 49 

8. Circumstantial Evidence. 66 

9. The Pal of “Jimmy the Rat”. 80 

10. The Phantom Shot. 93 

11. The Cause of Divorces.100 

12. The Policeman’s Tryst.108 

13. The Sowards Murder.122 

14. The Yellow Slip.131 

15. A Pair of Shoes.141 

16. The Murder Scoop.154 

17. The Death of Desdemona.163 

18. “A Mass of Golden Hair”.170 

19. Just a Little Dog.181 

20. The Jet Earrings.198 

21. Queen of the Safe Crackers.213 























22. The Trunk Bandit.234 

23. The National Swindle.252 

24. The Mystery Woman.271 

25. Witherell Case.286 

26. The Modern Bluebeard.307 

27. The Old Man’s Violin.321 

28. Murder of Father Heslin.328 

29. Friday, the Thirteenth.342 

30. The Passing of Sergeant Fitzgerald.354 











In The Shadows 

PROVING 

“JVhy Crime Doesn’t Pay ” 

THE CONFESSION OF A MASTER 

BURGLAR 

OINCE the World War, police officials throughout the 
^ United States will tell you that crime has increased 
many fold. I do not know whether this condition also 
exists in other great nations. Many have tried to place 
the blame. Some claim the unrestful mental condition 
of the returned soldiers; others say prohibition has caused 
the excessive use of narcotics. I will not try to answer. 
I am to deal only on the subject of my title, “Why Crime 
Doesn’t Pay,” even though it is the result of these or 
some other causes. 

Crime is defined by some authorities as follows: “An 
act which violates a law or rule, divine or human, and 
subjects to judgment or condemnation the evildoer.” 

Another authority defines crime in this way—“Crime: 
A term used to indicate a violation of the higher moral 
law, sometimes more specifically the violation of a certain 
group of the laws, formulated by a city, state or nation. 
This group properly comprises in its scheme all offenses 
endangering the welfare of the community.” 

Let us for a moment turn back the pages of history 
and see its results. The first crime was committed when 
Adam and Eve violated the trust and command of God. 

After years men ascended the thrones of the mighty, 
either by inheritance or force of conquest. Some dug 



12 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


their own foundations out from under them as a result 
of their own crimes and dissipations, just at a time when 
they felt such a thing was impossible. 

Think of the days of the Spanish Inquisition. Was 
it not the wilful violation of the laws of God and nature 
that caused the throne of Spain to totter and left a stain 
in after years that has never been eradicated? Then re¬ 
call the crimes of the sea pirates, who roamed the billowy 
waters for years, only to be crushed and stamped out of 
existence by the power of law and order. 

Just so in modern days. Crime does not succeed any 
better than it did in olden times. It can’t. The law of 
average is against it. The mutual betting system on the 
race track at Tia Juana is a sure winner (for the book¬ 
makers). They are bound to get their percentage first. 
The wise ones running this system have figured it out. 
The old style Bookies have been known to go broke many 
times, when some long shot led the field. The average 
winning is in their favor, but fate may play the unexpected 
trick. Hence the Paris Mutuals. 

This rule also applies in crime. The real smart 
crooks may go along for several years. They think all 
the luck in the world is with them when suddenly from 
the hidden unknown up pops Mr. Law of Average and 
bingo! the air castle topples to the ground. They have 
got to get in the Mutuals, their percentage must be fig¬ 
ured, and the only way they can get in is by playing 
straight. 

I have seen so many times in my professional career 
how true this is. I remember many years ago when I 
was a police reporter, and long before the famous book 
of “Raffles” was published, there were continuous reports 
of a master burglar’s operations coming into police head¬ 
quarters. The crimes were all most mysterious. The 
best detectives of the country, both police and private 


THE CONFESSION OF A MASTER BURGLAR 13 

agencies, were bending their efforts to land this mystery 
man. 

Swell receptions and functions were covered by these 
sleuths, and still somehow or other the “mouse” would 
slip out of the trap. Thousands of dollars’ worth of 
jewels would be his prize. In those days South Figueroa 
street was the fashionable residential section of Los An¬ 
geles. One rainy night while a large social affair was 
taking place in the McLaughlin residence just across the 
street from the Stimpson mansion in the 2400 block, a 
porch climber made away with quite a haul. It was the 
first job of this kind we reporters ever knew of. We 
played it up for many columns. 

Next week another house was touched off in the same 
way. One of us coined the name of “Monkey Bandit,” 
because his work was always the same. The gentleman 
always gained entrance and took his leave by this route, 
over the front porch. There were several of these jobs 
pulled during the next few months. Then we heard no 
more. 

A few weeks later, what we would now call the Raffles 
stunt started. Diamond necklaces would mysteriously 
drop from the well-formed necks of portly matrons never 
to be seen again by the owners. Then came the day of 
reckoning for this master-mind burglar; the man para¬ 
mount in his profession, if we can call his vocation such. 

The tingling of the phone bell on my desk told me the 
city editor was calling. 

“Nick,” he said, “I just got a funny call. A woman 
who runs a rooming house out on West Jefferson street 
phoned that a wounded man was in one of her rooms in 
bed and she didn’t know what to do. She said he just 
came in and said he had to go to bed. I don’t know why 
she picked on me and not some doctor. Thought you’d 
better look into it and see what’s in the story.” 


14 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


I took the address and started out of the press room, 
when it occurred to me that there had been a shooting 
scrape the night before on the front porch of the Edward 
L. Doheny residence, in Chester Place. Captain John 
Henderickson, since killed by two young boy bandits, had 
the private police patrol of this select park. He had in¬ 
tercepted a burglar about to climb the porch of Mr. 
Doheny’s home. A shooting resulted in which the 
Captain was shot through the sleeve, and a trail of blood 
was left on the sidewalk, showing Henderickson’s aim 
had registered true to his reputation. But the burglar 
escaped. 

I wondered, could this be Jack’s man. I rushed into 
the office of Captain A. J. Bradish, then in charge of the 
Detective Bureau, and told him of my hunch. Bradish 
picked up his pearl-handled hammerless from the desk 
and called Detective Sergeant Joseph Rich and said, “Joe, 
I think Nick has a line on our Monkey Bandit. Let’s 

g°-” 

In those days there were but few autos, and none in 
the service of the police department, so he called Tom 
Rico to bring the patrol wagon drawn by the two gray 
horses. 

Upon our arrival, the landlady was standing on the 
sidewalk, an old gray shawl over her head and she was 
wringing her kitchen apron with both hands. We had 
left the wagon at the corner. 

“Do you live here?” asked Bradish. 

“Yes,” she said, “and I am waiting for the police. I 
am afraid to go into my house. A man came this morn¬ 
ing and told me he was shot and wanted to rent a room 
and for me to call a doctor and I don’t know what to do. 
He may die and I—I—” 

Bradish politely got a chance to shut off her flowing 
words, while she was getting her second wind, and found 


THE CONFESSION OF A MASTER BURGLAR 15 


out that the fellow was upstairs in the back bedroom to 
the right of the hall. 

He told her to go up and introduce him as the doctor 
and he and Rich would do the rest. Of course I took the 
cue and followed. This quick thinking on the part of 
Bradish again showed me the Master Detective he always 
was. 

Upon entering the room, and as the landlady tried to 
stammer her instruction, the fellow seemed to sense 
something wrong and half turned his back, and started to 
reach his good arm under the pillow. 

Bradish and Rich also outthought him, and like a 
flash their two revolvers were sticking in his ribs, followed 
with a command to lie still. Bradish pulled the pillow 
from under his head and there clutched in his left hand 
was a weapon that looked to me like a cannon. 

“I guess the game is up, young man,” said Bradish. 
“We’ve got you at last. When will you fellows ever 
learn that crime doesn’t pay ?” 

That was the first time I ever had those words im¬ 
pressed upon me. 

We took him back into the Receiving Hospital, where 
Bradish called Paul Flammer, then chief of the Bureau 
of Identification. One look at the young face of the 
wounded man and Flammer said, “Open your mouth.” 

Two gold teeth were all that was necessary for this 
eagle-eyed Bertillon man to see to convince him that 
there before him lay Philip McNary, the Gentleman 
Burglar, the Monkey Bandit, and, worst of all, the al¬ 
leged murderer of a policeman in Oakland. 

Several days passed, as he lay upon the hospital cot, 
recovering from a bullet wound in his left arm and chest, 
and awaiting the arrival of Northern officers to take him 
to Oakland to stand trial for murder. This gave me 
many chances to talk to him, and he told me of how he 


16 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


had followed this primrose path since he was fifteen years 
old. He was now twenty-seven. He said he had never 
been caught, but that once while he was robbing a mil¬ 
lionaire’s residence on Lake Shore drive in Chicago, he 
bumped into some piece of furniture and awoke the ser¬ 
vants. The only place he could hide was in a large cloi¬ 
sonne vase, where he stayed all the balance of that night 
and next day and into the next night, when he finally 
escaped. 

Bradish and Rich recovered nearly all of the plunder 
McNary gained in the Los Angeles jobs and he was sent 
away. He is still paying the price. I met him once af¬ 
terwards in San Quentin and he told me this: 

“Harris, I never knew what was in store for me. If 
you could only tell those young fellows outside how I 
have suffered, I think it would do a lot of good. Tell 
them I was lucky for a while. Yes, twelve years. I felt 
I could never be caught. Why, when I used to go out to 
Westlake Park every morning and take my daily recrea¬ 
tion in those pretty little canoes, and watch the long-neck 
swans come up beside the boats and eat popcorn that I 
brought to feed them, and heard the splashing of the 
water in the little falls at the north end of the lake, I little 
thought that some day I would be here ‘doing it all,’ as 
these inmates call it. Then, again, tell them the days are 
not the bad part of the game here, but tell them it’s the 
nights. 

“Tell them the midnights of the far North have noth¬ 
ing on these ten hours after sundown. Tell them when I 
hear the clanging of the steel doors, and the ringing of 
our closing bell, I just begin to realize what freedom 
really means. Take that message, Harris, to the outside 
and preach it to those birds who think they can beat the 
game. Tell them what Bradish said to me when I 
reached for that iron (revolver) under my pillow. Tell 


THE CONFESSION OF A MASTER BURGLAR 17 


more about our lives up here, so they will know. It is 
education along these lines these young fellows need. 
They won’t listen to their mothers and fathers; it takes 
some one else, some outsider to impress upon them that 
crime never pays. The odds are all against us.” 

It was this talk with McNary behind the grey walls 
of San Quentin that impressed me with the idea that if I 
could ever muster up courage to talk before large audi¬ 
ences, I would try my best to make good to him and de¬ 
liver his message to mankind, that they might realize that 
if a Master Mind like his could not keep him out of the 
Big House, what chance has the novice. 


THE SUFFERING OF THE 
INNOCENT 


I N Part One of this series, I recounted the pleadings 
of Philip McNary, the Raffles, the Monkey Bandit 
and the alleged murderer, as told to me behind the grey 
walls of San Quentin. He asked me to deliver a message 
to the outside, to tell the young fellows why crime doesn’t 
pay. I must word picture another example, perhaps 
more impressive, possibly more serious. One, perchance, 
that will fasten itself more definitely in the minds of those 
for whom these stories are intended. Hence, I am going 
to tell of the sufferings of the innocent ones at home. 
Not the criminal himself, but those who watch and wait 
for his homecoming. Those who, after all, pay most. 

In one of the stories I contributed to the press I told 
of Micky, the pal of Jimmy the Rat. He was finally shot 
and killed in Texas. A day or two after its publication, 
I received the following letter: 

Dear Sir :— 

Last night 1 finished reading your story about Micky. We had 
a brother Micky. He was the black sheep in our family. He had 
red hair and freckles just as you described. When you told of 
how he cried out in the court room to Jimmy, who thought he had 
been double-crossed by Micky, I could just picture our Micky boy. 
He was always so sensitive and impulsive. He left us five years 
ago, and we have never heard from him since. Then when you 
said he had been killed in a gun battle with Texas officers, we all 
became curious. I am writing to ask if you will please send 
us the last name of Micky, so that we may know if it was our lad, 
or if it wasn't him we can still have hopes of his return. 

(Signed,) MRS. L. JOHNSON, 

Genl. Delv., San Francisco, Calif. 


THE SUFFERING OF THE INNOCENT 


19 


I answered this letter and told her Micky’s last name 
was Mulvain. I never received an answer. Perhaps it 
was her Micky, perhaps not; perhaps I will never know. 

I do know, however, that those at Micky’s home were suf¬ 
fering. They were waiting for the prodigal son who . 
wandered down the rugged path that leads to misery and 
suffering. 

It seems that all things work in cycles. I had just 
mailed the answer to this sister, when my secretary in¬ 
formed me that Jack- wanted to see me. For the 

sake of the boy I will not mention his last name. He, too, 
had been a burglar,—one of the best in the field. He 
was only twenty-four. I met him first, two days after the 
robbery of a Seventh Street silk store. 

The burglars had entered this shop by prying up a 
back window. Police and special watchmen covered 
these premises every half hour. Yet the burglars rifled 
the shop of some $5,000 worth of bolted silk. They 
tried to open a small safe weighing several hundred 
pounds. They couldn’t, so they just took it along, too, on 
the stolen truck backed in the alley. 

They left undiscovered, but fate was against them, as 
it always is in matters of this kind. Four bolts of 
plunder were bumped off the truck along the streets of 
Los Angeles and turned over to the police by early morn¬ 
ing autoists. Each finder was requested to tell just where 
he had picked up the silk. Each told of places several 
miles apart from the other. 

I was called into the case by the Merchant Victim and 
found Police Detective Sergeants Edward King and Louis 
D. Oaks, Teddy Mailheau and Roy Shy were on the 
detail from headquarters. We all thought of our kid 
days when we used to play fox and geese. We were 
trained then to follow the cuttings of paper left by the 
supposed geese. The papers represented the feathers 



20 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


and we played the part of the fox. This day we would 
still be the fox following the “Silken Feathers” of the 
silly geese. The trail led out into the beautiful La 
Canada Valley. There on the Boulevard just back of 
Tropico and just south of a beautiful picnic ground was 
found the last bolt. 

Tracks in the soft dirt plainly showed where the 
thieves had driven to some hidden and thickly timbered 
rendezvous. Marshaling our forces together, we de¬ 
cided to attack the place from four sides. We all set 
our watches so we would come to a certain point in the 
center at the same time, as we figured these robbers would 
be armed and fireworks would surely start if we entered 
single-handed. 

Our plan carried to the second. We found the stolen 
truck stuck in the sand. It was empty, but under the 
heavy brush we found the battered safe and all its con¬ 
tents, except the money. The birds had flown also. 

We all returned to town and started all over again. 
Nothing to work on except the percentage which is always 
in favor of law and order. The thieves must have an 
outlet for their ill-gotten gains. They must realize cash 
to pay for their trouble. 

I will pass over the next few hours of our investiga¬ 
tion, merely to say we found a lead, and one of my agents, 
Gravate Wigginton, informed us that he had met one of 
the burglars and arranged to buy the loot. He had 
measured every yard, and could take us to the little cot¬ 
tage where it was stored. Police Detectives Oaks, King, 
Claude Morgan, Tommy Cochrane and Harlan Martin 
of my office and I raided the house, and awaited the 
arrival of Wigginton and the burglar. 

We found only a frightened little woman and her 
baby when we entered the place. She said the stuff piled 
high behind a bed had been left there that morning by a 


THE SUFFERING OF THE INNOCENT 21 

friend of her husband. She claimed she was innocent and 
had no knowledge of the crime. Nevertheless, we would 
have to hold her for further investigation. We waited 
for her husband to come home. Perhaps he was one of 
the gang. A friend of his came first. Four guns in the 
hands of determined officers greeted him as he swung 
open the kitchen door. We hustled him into one of the 
other rooms and awaited the rest. 

Then came Wigginton and our burglar. The latter 
had walked into the trap. When he saw we had the 
young wife, and intended to take her with us, real tears 
came into his eyes as he looked at her and then at us and 
said: 

“Gentlemen, I give up. If you will promise to let 
this girl and her baby go I will come clean. She doesn’t 
know a thing about this at all. I will go and take my fall 
like a man if you will only listen to me. I realize now as 
never before how I am making this little woman suffer. 
It was through her husband’s kindness that I was able to 
park this junk in this house. Neither she nor her hus¬ 
band know that this stuff is “hot” (stolen goods). I told 
them I had bought it from some sailors to peddle, and 
was afraid it might be stolen from me if I left it up town. 
That’s the truth, so help me God!” 

As he finished, in walked the husband, who was ar¬ 
rested by Morgan and Cochrane, whom we had left on 
guard on the outside. The husband told the same story. 
It was the same story the wife had told us earlier. 

We believed him (the burglar), as he held out his 
hands and told us to slip on the cuffs and go. 

We found his partner in jail. He had just been ar¬ 
rested for stealing a second-hand tire, valued at about 
three dollars. Here was another master burglar, a vic¬ 
tim of fate’s strange pranks. But fate had played a 
strange game. He had blown a tire on his own car and 


22 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


being in a hurry to meet his pal, just picked up the cheap 
tire from in front of a vulcanizing store, only to be seen 
by a plain-clothes man and brought to the station. 

Such was the ending of their case so far as we were 
concerned except that we testified at their trial and they 
were sent away. 

Jack Calls 

I had most forgotten the incident, until my secretary 
announced that Jack was in the outer office. 

“Show him in, please,” I answered. 

“Well, Jack, when did you get out?” I said, as a 
shamed-faced boy entered my office. 

“About a month ago, Nick, and I want to talk to 
you.” 

Many times before, these bad boys had called on me 
after doing their bit, and really I was glad to see them. 
It makes a fellow in my game feel great to think these 
chaps have that spark of manhood left to come to one 
who might have had a hand in their going away. 

“Nick, you know I was good at the game when you 
all got me, and I don’t want you to think I am trying to 
hand you any bunk. You know I never squealed on my 
pal or anything like that. I told you I would take the 
fall and I did. But listen, I am cured. I am going 
straight. Not because of the jolt I got or the fear of 
taking another. I was never yellow in all my life. But 
I tell you I am cured.” 

“Well Jack,” I said, “that’s fine; but, boy, I have 
heard them say that before. Some have kept their word, 
but some I know have not. I—I—” 

“Just a minute, Nick, just a minute,” he interrupted 
as he flipped the ashes from a newly lit cigarette. “I 
said I am cured, and that goes. It’s what my dear old 
mother sprung on me this morning that’s made a Chris- 


THE SUFFERING OF THE INNOCENT 


23 


tian out of me, today. Let me tell you!” 

I sank down deep in my chair and was really anxious 
to hear his story. 

Again I fancied I could trace a slight swelling in his 
lower eyelids. I thought I saw a tear-drop trickle down 
his pale cheek and bury itself on his coat front. 

“Shoot, Jack, I want to hear,” I said, as I realized 
that it would probably be something I had never heard 
before. 

“Well, today at breakfast, my mother put her arms 
around me and placed the morning paper before me. 
‘Read that, my son, and then I want to talk to you.’ 

“I looked and saw in big letters, clean across the front 
page, an account of the attempted holdup of the payroll 
of the Ice and Cold Storage Plant. It went on to tell 
how five stickup men had walked into a trap and were 
shot in their tracks by deputy sheriffs when they refused 
to surrender. 

“I looked at mother and said, ‘What’s that got to do 
with me. I wasn’t on that job. I don’t know that mob.’ 

“ ‘Yes, I know, my boy, but read on,’ she said. 

“On the next page the article went on to tell of how 
one of the bandits was unidentified, and how his widowed 
mother had received a mysterious phone call to go to a 
certain undertaking establishment, and there she found 
the unknown dead burglar was her own boy, shot through 
the heart and temple. 

“When I finished reading, my mother kissed me and 
said: 

“ ‘Jackie, boy, that mother might have been me. 
Think, my baby, what that mother suffered as she stood 
beside the cold and silent form of her own offspring. 
Think, Jackie, how she had looked forward all these 
years to the day she could point with pride at some great 
achievement this lad might have accomplished in the busi- 


24 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


ness world. That’s what all mothers look forward to. 
Then think, my son, of her disappointment, the sorrow 
and the suffering she must pass through. He owed her 
more than that. Didn’t he, Jackie?’ 

“ ‘Yes he did, mother,’ I whispered, as I threw my 
arms around her and kissed away the tears on that dear 
old lady’s face. It was then I saw the light of day. I 
saw that which I never thought of before. The selfish¬ 
ness of us in the crooked game. I promised her I would 
call it quits. I am done; I am finished; I am cured. And 
now, Nick, if all these chaps that’s pulling the stickups 
and the burglaries and the oil station jobs could have 
heard what my old lady said to me, they’d be cured, too. 
Now I want an honest job. Can you help me?” 

He meant what he said. I got him a job for a few 
days until he landed a better one, but I think he is deserv¬ 
ing of a still better one, and as this is not a fiction story 
and I have Jack’s address, I am willing to back him to any 
sincere reader who can give him the helping hand of fel¬ 
lowship which will prove to him the title to my article, 
“Why Crime Doesn’t Pay” is true. 


FIGHT CRIME WITH 
ADVERTISING 


TUST at this time civic and private organizations have 
J banded their members together in a determined effort 
to fight the crime epidemic now sweeping over our coun¬ 
try. Without a question, the recently organized Commun¬ 
ity Development Association of Los Angeles will prove 
the most effective. Those responsible for its origin hit 
the keynote of its success when they gathered into its fold 
a representative of every newspaper in Los Angeles. 
Without the combined cooperation of the press, no public 
movement can ever expect a satisfactory conclusion. 

When Chief of Police Louis D. Oaks took office, I 
suggested to him that he would immediately form what 
might be called an advisory police cabinet to consist of at 
least twenty-five members, these members to be selected 
as follows: One representative from each newspaper, 
one from each religious faith, one from the Chamber of 
Commerce and one from the Labor Council, and one 
from each of the Civic Clubs, both men’s and women’s. 

This, in my opinion, would place behind his adminis¬ 
tration a force of citizens who from time to time could get 
behind him and create a condition of police administration 
that would result in such an array of talent aligned 
against the foes of law and order as to make them seek 
other fields to ply their nefarious operations. 

The Chief said: “Nick, that plan is great. I hope to 
see it take effect. Just as soon as I get familiar with all 
the conditions that now confront me, I will surely place 


26 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


the matter before Mayor Cryer and the Police Commis- 
sion. 

Then came the organization of the Community De¬ 
velopment Association, and which I feel sure will bring 
about the same if not greater results. 

From my experience of over twenty years in dealing 
with the criminal classes, I found one has got to deal with 
them like we would with any dangerous business proposi¬ 
tion. They have got to be shown through the medium 
of education just why “Crime Doesn’t Pay.” The fear 
of God and the power of law enforcement forces must be 
impressed upon them. They are a good deal like a child 
who runs away from school and goes swimming in some 
place not permitted. The parents of this child can talk 
their heads off or perhaps whip him, and it won’t always 
bring results. But let some big, burly policeman or 
truant officer catch him in swimming and take most of 
his clothes from him and make him walk through the 
streets, half dressed, to the police station—the child will 
get a scare and lasting impression that will remain with 
him for all time. 

I don’t mean to take this child and throw him in jail 
when he arrives at the police station to mix with criminals 
therein confined, because that would be the worst thing 
that could happen. I mean if that big policeman would 
usher this boy into the presence of the Captain of Police, 
who is all decked out in his blue and gold uniform and this 
commander would take the time to talk to this lad in a 
kindly manner and tell him of how he himself used to play 
hookey from school, and was able to get only in the sixth 
grade, and how now in latter years he had to sit up nights 
to regain the knowledge he threw away when he was a 
kid, and which he could have had for nothing. A talk 
like this to the boy, coming from the big man in the de¬ 
partment, would be such a surprise that the child would 


FIGHT CRIME WITH ADVERTISING 27 

immediately grasp the thought and remember it forever¬ 
more. 

On the other hand, and yet which contradicts my 
theory, in part, I remember two women about nineteen 
years of age, whom my agents had arrested for shoplift¬ 
ing, and who were placed in jail over night. It recalls 
to my memory how one of these was cured by the fright 
she received that night. 

These girls were just about ready to break into a life 
of crime. They had lived in one of the smaller towns, 
and ran away. They came to Los Angeles and obtained 
work in a restaurant. They could not earn enough to 
satisfy their new city desires, and wanted new clothes, so 
they went into one of our big stores and proceeded to 
remove two dresses from the racks over to their own 
room, without using the customary system in vogue of 
transferring from their pocketbooks the purchase price. 

Miss Eunice Alexander, one of my store detectives 
saw the operation and of course detained them. One of 
the girls put up a terrific battle at the corner of Fifth and 
Broadway, but, finally, with the aid of the Traffic Officer, 
Tommy O’Connor, they were taken back into the store, 
and into the superintendent’s office. I was called and took 
them to jail. Naturally, I thought they were bad actors 
and locked them up. 

Next morning I called at the women’s quarters of the 
city jail and was asked by the matron to go into the case 
carefully, as she felt these girls were not so bad as we 
first thought. Many times these police women stationed 
in the cell rooms of the female section had given me val¬ 
uable aid, due, I think, to their close study of female of¬ 
fenders. Many times they have been the means of hav¬ 
ing my prisoners confess their crimes, and caused me to 
recover many hundreds of dollars worth of stolen mer- 


28 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


chandise belonging to the big department stores of this 
city. 

I told the matron to bring the girls into her office and 
I would talk to them. When they entered, both were cry¬ 
ing, and the one that had put up the battle was shaking 
like a leaf. All the fight had been taken out of her. 

I asked them what they thought about it now. 

“Oh, Mr. Officer, let us go home. We don’t like the 
city or this jail; we will never steal again.” The one now 
speaking was the one who had not tried to carry off 
Dempsey’s honors. “We will be good, Mister, from now 
on. Clara will die if she spends another night here. 
Please, please let us go.” 

I turned to the matron and asked what she thought 
about them, and why she asked me to go easy. 

“Well, Mr. Harris, I’ll tell you,” she said; “last night 
when you brought her in, Mrs. McPeak was on duty. 
This girl, Clara, was very defiant. She just kept singing 
and acted so that Mrs. McPeak told her that if she didn’t 
go to sleep she would put her in the dark room. You 
know we are so crowded four girls have to occupy the 
same cell. Each, of course, in separate beds. 

“Well, she first took off one shoe and threw it so 
hard on the floor that it wakened the other prisoners; 
then she kicked over a chair and knocked over a metal 
pitcher of water and shouted, ‘1 don’t have to stay here 
with this nigger woman.’ 

“Just then Black Mandy, who had been arrested for 
drunkenness, rose up from her bunk, and standing over 
Clara and with the pitcher in an upraised hand, said, 
‘Who you-all call Nigger?’ 

“That was enough. Mrs. McPeak rushed in and 
stopped the fracas and placed Clara in another cell. But 
she sure got the scare of her life. I don’t think she will 
want to come back here again.” 


FIGHT CRIME WITH ADVERTISING 


29 


I made further investigation of the case and found 
the mothers and fathers of these girls were very respected 
ranchers, living near Glendora, and had been searching 
for a week for these waywards. I got them suspended 
sentences, and to this day they are cured. 

Of course, that sort of treatment would not apply in 
all cases by any means, yet it is getting back to my conten¬ 
tion that it takes education to show some offenders that 
crime does not pay. 

If I were on the Anti-Crime Commission of the Com¬ 
munity Development Association, I would urge a cam¬ 
paign of out-of-door advertising. I would hang on the 
lamp posts on Broadway for a few days, big red signs, 
written in the language of the underworld, something 
about as follows: 

Beware, this towns on fire. We stand for no 
rough stuff. Be good or beat it. 

(Signed) Chief of Police. 

And under the Chief’s name I would put, “Com¬ 
munity Development Association,” backed by the Anti- 
Crime Committee, etc. 

This would have the effect of letting the mobs know 
this town was too hot for them. They would stop and 
think. Just as many of us have thought when we saw the 
work of some religious person who paints on our cul¬ 
verts and fences along the highways, “The Wages of Sin 
is Death.” 

Advertise! We do it in business. The churches now 
tell of the sermons of tomorrow of their pastors, and 
that’s what we must do to combat this element. 

Advertise and educate the young and see the results 
in after years. We must advertise “That Crime Doesn’t 
Pay.” 


MABEL’S MISTAKE 


I N my last article I expressed my theory of the proper 
way to curb the crime wave. I said we must educate 
criminals by the modern means of advertising “Why 
Crime Doesn’t Pay.” We must show them the folly of 
their wrong-doing and the reward they reap in the end. 

In this chapter, I will continue to point out other 
salient features of my argument. I will try and get down 
underneath and see if, after all, it is not in childhood, 
wherein this dangerous seed has been planted. I will 
start at the time a child is about five years old. 

Do you recall when you were a child of this age and 
had done something your parents knew was not just right, 
and how they used to tell you that if you didn’t behave 
they would tell that big policeman to come and get you? 
And do you remember how you gradually learned to hate 
every officer you would see afterwards? When you grew 
into manhood, that same feeling just sort of clung to you 
and you felt more bitter against them, when you saw 
some bull-headed policeman needlessly bellowing out 
some command to a thoughtless autoist for some slight in¬ 
fraction of the traffic laws. 

That’s the natural result. It may have so happened 
that your path led into legitimate vocations. But think 
of the other fellow or girl who fell into bad company, and 
later had official business with the police. Think what 
their attitude must be. How their hate of the blue uni¬ 
form and brass buttons must have been enlarged. 

Now let’s look at the other side. If we, as children, 
had been brought up to regard these officers as our friends 


MABEL’S MISTAKE 


31 


and protectors, and some of these chaps would realize 
they were there to please and serve the public, what a 
different feeling would exist. 

For example, I know of certain officers directing traffic 
on the busy down-town corners, who are idolized by the 
public. Christmas packages by the score are given 
to them every year. Why? I know why. I have stood 
and watched them, and never once heard them “bawl out” 
a single citizen who unintentionally violated the rules. I 
watched their faces and when they called the driver’s 
attention to his mistake they did it in such a fashion that 
plainly showed they had not unnecessarily embarrassed 
the occupants of the car. A smile and word of warning 
was their parting salutation. Some will say this is all 
bunk, and if I had been detailed on these crossings I would 
soon get that notion out of my mind. But they are 
wrong. These same officers I speak of have either held 
these jobs down for years or else have advanced to some 
higher offices in the department. As for the other kind, 
sooner or later they would step on the wrong fellow’s toes 
and are now walking beats in the Fog District, as we in 
the police game call it. 

I think one of the greatest moves ever made in proper 
policing of a city is that in which policemen are being de¬ 
tailed at crossings where schoolhouses are located. 

When this detail was first made, you would see the 
children shy at these blue-coated guardians who wanted to 
help them across the streets, but look at the situation now. 
The little kiddies will run up to the big Copper and al¬ 
most fight each other to grasp his hand. I even saw one 
little tot the other day open her lunch box and give the 
big fellow a red apple. His face beamed with as much 
happiness as though the Mayor had decorated him for 
bravery. 

Just a day or two ago Chief Louis D. Oaks, of the 


32 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 

< 

Los Angeles Police Department, received the following 
letter: 

Dear Chief of Police: 

there is a nice traffic officer at Vernon and 
Moneta avenue. IV e children do love him very 
much he is so kind to us he carries us across the 
street when it is raining won’t you please Mister 
Chef let him stay thir always, zuhat would we do if 
you shold take him azvay. there is a 8 on his badge. 

yours lovingly 

Lucy Jane Faulk , 

3807 So. Hill Street. 

The officer was R. N. Amos of the University Divi¬ 
sion. I know him well and can back up this child's judg¬ 
ment. So did Chief Oaks. It is impressions like these 
made upon the young children that will bring about the 
real desires of all peace and justice-loving citizens. 

I once arrested one of the most clever shoplifters that 
ever operated in Los Angeles. She was being questioned 
by my general manager, Wm. G. Hanson. Hanson is a 
University Graduate. His mind is always centered on 
the scientific analysis of matters of this sort. He wants 
to dig into the research part of the case to find the cause. 
Because of this girl's apparent refinement, which seemed 
to radiate from her he asked this question: 

“Miss, how did you happen to get into this sort of 
business? You don’t seem to fit in, somehow.” 

The girl tipped back her vanity case and said: 

“I was born in Chicago. My father was arrested 
when I was a child for a crime he was not guilty of. He 
had endorsed a check given to him by another man. This 
check was worthless. He could not find the other man 
and was unable to prove his innocence. He was sentenced 
to Joliet penitentiary for seven years. My mother was 
left to take care of us three children, a brother and a 
sister. Father had told us he was innocent and we knew he 


MABEL’S MISTAKE 


33 


told the truth. This early education of the mistake of the 
Blind Justice made me hate everything that had anything 
to do with her. I grew up to beat her if I could. But I am 
afraid the cards are stacked against me. Or perhaps for 
the one wrong she committed she had thousands of good 
judgments in her favor. So you see the percentage is 
always against me. 

“You ask why I don’t stop. I can best explain that 
by telling you of a little incident that happened in my life 
later. 

“Our mob had been cleaning the big stores (shoplift¬ 
ing) in Philadelphia when Edna, my partner in the gang, 
had decided to go out and see her mother. When we ar¬ 
rived at her home, I had carelessly pulled out of the 
front of my dress a very valuable evening gown, which I 
had secreted in a hidden pocket. I had just placed it 
across the bed when Edna’s two-year-old sister happened 
in the room. Her eyes fell upon it and she said: 

“ ‘Oh, Miss Mabel, where did you buy such a beauti¬ 
ful dress?’ 

“Thoughtlessly, I answered, ‘Kiddie, I didn’t buy 
that; I just borrowed it from Mr. Wanamaker.’ 

“ ‘Borrowed it?’ she queried. ‘What do you mean? 
Does Mr. Wanamaker let people have such beautiful 
things to take home?’ 

“ ‘No, child, we don’t pay for anything. We just rob 
the rich.’ We thought it was such a good joke, Edna and 
I broke out laughing when Edna’s mother called, ‘Lillie, 
run to the store for Mama and get a loaf of bread for 
lunch.’ The child backed out of the room in silence, her 
eyes seemed glued to the blue shiny silk lying before her. 

“We thought no more of the affair until, a few min¬ 
utes later, she came back from the store and put the bread 
on the table and came into the front room. Her face was 


34 WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 

as white as flour. She was shaking like a frightened 
fawn. 

“Suddenly from under her little red jacket she pulled 
out a glass of jelly. Holding it up before us, she said: 
‘See what I took from the rich grocery man.’ 

“That should have been our lesson, if ever a lesson 
was to be had. I had educated the child without think¬ 
ing. We were both shocked. It struck us both at home. 
The terrible seed we had planted. Edna grabbed the 
glass and threw it out the window, and gave her sister 
a sound spanking, and then took her back to the store 
and made her pay the groceryman out of her little bank. 

“When she came home, we asked her why she had 
done such a thing, and this was what she said: ‘Well, 
you told me how you got the dress, and how you robbed 
the rich, and I guess I just got the habit from you.’ 

“You know Mr. Harris and Mr. Hanson, in the 
Bible it says, ‘A little child shall lead them.’ Yet in this 
case, it was them leading a little child. As for me not 
quitting, I guess I am like Tillie, I just got the habit. I 
got started wrong. I was not educated along the right 
line, but may the Good Lord some day see fit to give me 
enough will-power to break this habit, as I know now 
that if I continue, I will spend the balance of my time 
powdering my nose in front of a looking-glass in some 
big hotel kept up by the State.” 

Again, I say, in closing my chapter, this is just an¬ 
other example culled from everyday life, and which 
bears out my assertion, “Why Crime Does Not Pay.” 


THE STOCKSDALE MURDER 

P 1 HE instance I am going to tell you about, occurred 
some eighteen years ago while I was detailed at the 
Central Police Station as a news reporter for the Los 
Angeles Daily Journal. 

I had just returned from a midnight lunch- and re¬ 
ported over the phone to my city editor, Mr. Statts, that 
everything was as quiet as a mummy’s tomb. He told 
me to keep awake and that there is always a lull before 
a storm. I answered that I kind of had the same feel¬ 
ing myself, and hung up the phone. 

It is really strange, the hunches that come over one 
in this line of work. It seems almost uncanny as one 
sits in the stillness of the night and something seems to 
permeate the air, something that is about to break—a 
big story, perhaps. I have often wondered since the 
radio has come into its own if in those early days when 
I was a police reporter and had these feelings come over 
me, that a murder had been committed, or a big fire was 
about to break out, if it was not really after all that 
something you and I are now getting in the form of our 
present day radio. 

Whatever it was, I had it that night as I hung up the 
phone. I strolled out of the reporters’ room and over 
to the Detective Department where I found three detec¬ 
tives perched on their tilted chairs, leaning against the 
walls. A belated California rain was drizzling outside. 
Joe Rich was on the desk and was one of the old-timers 
around headquarters. His partner, Grant Roberds, was 
telling of some of his army experiences over in the Philip- 


36 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


pines. I remember he was telling how the native Igo- 
rotes used to live on dog meat. I was much interested. 
It was the first time I had ever heard of human beings 
eating dogs, and was just about to ask him to tell me 
more about it when the tinkling of the phone bell inter¬ 
rupted our party. 

“What’s that?” asked Rich, “burglar—shooting— 
now. Just a minute, madam, don’t get excited. Fell me 
quietly the address. You say someone is shot. Now the 
address-Wall St.” 

Rich turned to his partners, Detective Sergeants Hugh 
Dixon and Bert Cowan, and handed them a slip of paper 
with the address and said: 

“Better get there in a hurry. The woman says some¬ 
thing about a burglar and some shooting.” 

No autos in those days, so we ran to the patrol 
entrance and Tommy Rico whipped up the two gray 
horses into a gallop. The clanging of the bell gave us 
a clear right of way over the few cabbies and street cars 
that were still out in those early hours. 

Upon arriving at the Wall Street address, we found 
the neighborhood quite alarmed. Some were looking out 
of their lighted windows, while others were standing, 
half-dressed, on the sidewalks staring into a frame cot¬ 
tage that gave out an impression of mystery; in fact, the 
haunted house of story-book days was not unlike this 
place. 

We jumped out of the wagon and into the crowd 
and up the few front stairs of the house. The smell of 
cold powder smoke still perfumed the air inside. In the 
parlor, propped up in an old-fashioned chair sat a woman 
of about thirty. Her body was shaking with convulsion. 
Around her shoulders was thrown a blue and grey 
blanket. She was sobbing pitifully. I noticed her feet 
were bare, suggesting to my mind that she had just 




THE STOCKSDALE MURDER 


37 


jumped out of bed. An elderly woman was trying to 
comfort her and told us this young woman’s husband 
had just been shot by a burglar and was in the room 
just off the hall. 

We rushed to this room, which was in total darkness. 
Roberds struck a match as I looked for the electric light 
bracket. In the flickering shadows I saw the form of a 
man lying in bed, clutching in his stiffened fingers some 
of the coverings. By this time Cowan had turned on 
the light and Dixon stepped to a half-raised window that 
opened over a small cement walk, apparently leading to 
the rear of the house. 

I saw Roberds pick up a small hand mirror from the 
dresser and hold it over the man’s half opened mouth. 
I guessed that he was trying to see if life was yet in the 
body but he turned to us and said, “I guess he’s gone, 
all right.” 

A crimson spot on his left breast plainly showed 
where the assassin’s bullet had ended the life of this 
poor unfortunate. A hurried examination of the room 
disclosed no other clue that would lead to the possible 
identification of the murderer. 

The-coroner was notified and the body removed to 
an undertaking establishment. Roberds and Dixon 
talked to the wife who gave the name of—for the sake 
of the surviving members of her family and those of 
the dead man I will call her Mrs. Alberta Stocksdale. 
Between her muffled sobs, she said she had been awak¬ 
ened by the sound of some one raising the window of her 
bed room and there saw a man crawling in. She said 
she shook the sleeping form of her husband beside her 
and whispered in his ear to look, a burglar was getting 
in. She saw her husband half raise up in bed and call 
out, “What do you want?” Then there was a blinding 
flash and her husband groaned and fell back on the pillow 



38 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


as he murmured, “Good-by, my dear, I am shot; and oh, 
how I love you so!” 

She said she screamed and jumped from the bed and 
ran out of the house, falling in a swoon on the front 
lawn. She remembered nothing more until this kindly 
old lady had given her a glass of water. 

Such was the story of her husband’s death, except 
she said the burglar had fired from the window and that 
she had run out of the front door as he jumped back 
from the window and escaped. 

Cowan again entered the death chamber and began 
pawing over the bed clothes. I saw him look up and call 
to Dixon. He whispered something I could not hear. 
He then went back into the kitchen and turned on a light 
and walked out of the open door into the night, around 
the house and re-entered by the front door. I saw him 
stop, however, and look into the bedroom window and 
measure the distance between the cement walk and the 
house, just under the window. The sidewalk was eight 
feet from the house at this point and a pansy bed was 
directly under the window. I knew he was looking for 
footprints of the murderer. 

Upon entering the house, he asked the elderly lady 
if anyone besides her had been in the house since the 
shooting. She said no, and that she had been in the par¬ 
lor all the time. 

Another whispered conversation between the detec¬ 
tives, and Roberds asked the old lady if she would take 
the little wife into her house for the night and after 
stationing a uniformed officer at the death house with 
instructions not to let any one disturb a thing until he 
returned in the morning, Roberds motioned us to come on. 

In the patrol wagon going back to the station, Rob¬ 
erds said, “Nick, what do you think of it?” 

I, a cub reporter, said, “It’s awful, Grant. And to 


THE STOCKSDALE MURDER 


39 


think of the terrible feeling that little wife must have had 
when her husband was shot beside her in that dark room, 
and when he cried out to her, ‘Good-by, my dear, I am 
shot; and oh, how I love you!’ I sure do pity her.” 

“Well, kid, don’t lose any sympathy over her,” he 
answered. 

“What!” I said. “Don’t pity her! How can you be 
so hard-hearted?” I shot back at him. “You Coppers 
get me all riled up.” 

I wondered if he was human. 

“Listen, my lad,” he said, “no burglar ever killed 
Stocksdale. In fact, just at this time, I think she did it 
herself or perhaps—” Here he left the sentence un¬ 
finished, except to say that he guessed he had said too 
much before me already. 

I first looked at him, then at Dixon. I was trying 
to figure out his theory. What grounds had he to suspect 
that poor sobbing widow? Dixon was a very quiet fel¬ 
low, and his six-foot-two frame only swayed back and 
forth with the movement of the wagon as it bumped 
over the unpaved streets. 

* * * 

My story went into the paper as an account of a hus¬ 
band being killed in bed by a murderous burglar. It 
was well that I wrote it this way, as that was just what 
the detectives wanted. They didn’t want me to spill even 
the slightest hint of their suspicions. 

The coroner’s inquest followed. The same story 
was told by the wife as she told it to us that fatal night. 
However, for the two days between the date of the mur¬ 
der and the coroner’s inquest, I had never been able to 
get in touch with her. Cowan, Roberds and Dixon, where 
were they? This worried me. Perhaps they were work¬ 
ing out their theory in their own way. Two days after 
the inquest, I saw Mrs. Stocksdale in one of the shops on 


40 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


Broadway, attending a sale. Her eyes were not red 
now. She seemed a much different woman than when I 
saw her at the inquest such a short time before. 

At the end of the store aisle, I saw Dixon and 
Roberds. Yes, they were watching her. They were not 
dressed the same. Different hats and clothes, and one 
wore spectacles. In fact, they looked altogether different. 
More like a couple of ranchers. I, myself, would not 
have known them were it not for the fact that I had seen 
them dressed this way once before when Captain Bradish 
had detailed them on a very mysterious case involving a 
murder. 

I knew enough not to speak to them and they showed 
their appreciation later by telling me they would soon 
have a good story for me. 

The seventh day after the murder, an arrest was 
made of a man who was booked on suspicion of murder. 
He would say nothing. Police grilling was of no avail. 

Then followed the inevitable, as is always the case 
in crime and criminals. Mrs. Stocksdale heard of the 
arrest of this man and came to the station, she said, to 
identify, if possible, her husband’s assassin. She said 
she had been sent for by the police. But the police had 
not sent for her at all. Roberds and Dixon knew why 
she came. She was afraid. Afraid the suspect had 
talked. She realized the end was near. The guilty con¬ 
science that lurks in the innermost souls of all criminals 
was tearing her heart from its fastenings. 

Dixon and Roberds knew that she was worried over 
the powder marks on the purple quilt that covered her 
husband’s bed. Cowan and Roberds knew she was wor¬ 
ried over the lack of footprints in that little pansy bed 
under the death-chamber window. Dixon and Roberds 
knew she was worried over that back door being left 
opened. Yes, she suspected they knew all the truth, 


THE STOCKSDALE MURDER 


41 


because that same guilty conscience was still tearing at 
her heart, when she remembered that they asked her 
once about a clandestine lover; the eternal triangle. It 
was as old as the mountains she could see from the win¬ 
dow of the detectives’ office she was sitting in. 

She had but one chance to save her neck. They 
would never hang a woman in California if she turned 
State’s evidence. Her will power was broken when the 
clever man hunters, the protectors of our homes, shot 
this last question to her: 

“Mrs. Stocksdale, do you remember your husband’s 
last words, ‘Good-by, my dear, I am shot; and oh, I love 
you so?’ ” Oh, those words of the trusting and dying 
husband! 

That was the end. She broke into real tears and 
sobbed out the truth. She told of how she had been de¬ 
ceiving her husband; of how she had carried on these 
secret trysts with the suspect; and how, on the fatal 
night, they had planned to put the unsuspecting husband 
out of the way; and when he was asleep beside her, she 
had gotten up and let the murderous lover in the back 
door; and how she crept back into bed and her cowardly 
affinity had fired a bullet into the sleeping form, and then 
pulled up the window but had forgotten and went out 
the same way he came in. 

I won’t tell of the other things they forgot to do to 
cover up the crime, only to say the law of average was 
all against them, and when they have paid their penalties 
of man-made laws, they still must reckon with Him 
whose name our mothers have taught us to love and 
respect since childhood, because, after all, didn’t she tell 
us that “Crime Does Not Pay”? I think she did. 


THE CALLING OF JOHNNY 

MAC RAY 


r |' HE sun in Southern California never seemed to 
shine more brightly than on the particular morning in 
April, when Johnny MacRay threw down his hoe in his 
father’s orange grove, lying beneath the shadows of a 
small range of hills not far from that pretty little village 
of Glendora. 

A California rain had but just cleared the atmos¬ 
phere a few days before. The fragrance of orange 
blossoms filled the crisp air and the singing of the wild 
birds could be heard as they fluttered from limb to limb 
’mid the new leaves of the tall eucalyptus trees that 
served as a wind break around the borders of this sun- 
kissed grove. 

“Dad, I am done; I am through ranching,’’ said this 
nineteen-year-old lad as he unbuttoned the collar of his 
blue denim shirt and started for the house. His father 
just shook his head and said: 

“My boy, please don’t leave. We need you here.’’ 
But his son only kept going and when he met his mother 
at the back door of the rose-covered cottage, he only 
halted long enough to tell her he was going to the city. 

His sister, a year younger, was in the midst of 
stirring up another of those chocolate-covered cakes that 
always brought the most tickets at the little church 
bazaars. 

“Johnny, boy, why are you going, and leave us all 
alone?” she asked. 


43 


THE CALLING OF JOHNNY MAC RAY 

“Suzanna, I am going to the big city. I have read in 
books how men have been called to the wilds and out 
into the West, but day by day, as I work in the solitude 
of the ranch, I imagine I have heard the call of the city. 
I think they want me there. There, where I can make 
a mark in the world for myself. Yes, there where 
everyone has a chance. You know all the big men of to¬ 
day came from the farm, and that’s why I am going.” 

Johnny’s philosophy was good. True, it had been 
the making of many others who had gone before. Now 
let’s see what fate in modern day had in store for him. 

His best clothes were soon packed in a paper-covered 
suitcase and amid tear-stained faces about him, he braced 
himself for the parting, and lingering just long enough 
to listen to the farewell words of his mother, he saun¬ 
tered down the road to the little red-painted station of 
the interurban electric. 

As the screeching whistle of the on-coming train 
approached him, he glanced back at his home and there 
saw the forms of his people gathered beneath the big 
umbrella tree, he himself had helped plant at the en¬ 
trance of the ranch some ten years before. 

He fancied he could see them waving a last good-bye. 
He thought he could picture Don, the big black dog, 
trying to acknowledge his home leaving. Don had been 
his playfellow all his life. A thousand thoughts seemed 
to pass through his befuddled mind in these brief few 
seconds, only to be swept aside, as he thought of his 
advent into the big city of Los Angeles, he had so often 
visited with his parents at Fiesta times. 

John was not unfamiliar with this city’s streets. He 
knew the cars entered the big Pacific Electric depot at 
Sixth and Main, and that Spring Street was just a block 
west and Broadway was where all the big merchant 
princes had established the stores whose fame had 


44 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


traveled from coast to coast. Perhaps it would be in 
one of these places he would get his start. Yet, he was 
unskilled in any of these lines, and he was just a bit back¬ 
ward in asking for a place. 

His first thought was to get a room. Being un¬ 
acquainted with the pitfalls and dangers of improper 
home surroundings, he secured a location in a cheap 
lodging house in the busy section of the city, because it 
was not very expensive, and started out to hew his career. 

The only warnings he had received at home, were 
those he had had preached to him at the little church in 
Glendora. Perhaps they were not quite plain enough 
for a growing boy to understand. Perhaps he did not 
pay much attention to his minister when he was told of 
the dangers in a big city life. Or perhaps the minister 
had not foreseen the value of telling his young flock of 
the temptations, the filth and disease that lurk in the 
musty corners of every big city. Then again, even min¬ 
isters, bred in the homes of refinement, do not themselves 
know of the things that confront the boy or girl, seeking 
to reach fame in one of these metropolises. Just so with 
Johnny MacRay. 

* * * 

I will pass by the two short intervening years that 
followed, only to say that as time went on, Johnny’s 
letters home became fewer and fewer. 

About this time my office was called upon by one of 
the big corporations to make an investigation regarding 
a series of thefts taking place in several of their grocery 
stores, located in various parts of the city. Their in¬ 
voices were always short. A complete system of robbery 
was going on in each of these stores. 

The president of this corporation had personally 
called upon me many times. The losses were tremen¬ 
dous. He said he could not think that all of his man- 


THE CALLING OF JOHNNY MAC RAY 45 

agers were crooks, but he wanted me to place an 
operative in as many stores as possible and try and 
find the “leak.” 

Week after week my agents worked hard and faith¬ 
fully, but still no results. Each day their reports only 
seemed to baffle both the president and myself. All the 
employees who might be suspected were cleared by my 
agents, much to the satisfaction of the president, but 
still much to his chagrin. All the invoices from the big 
central warehouse had always checked with the mer¬ 
chandise that had been delivered to the various stores, 
yet the report of the firm’s inspector who weekly checked 
the stores showed merchandise short. 

It was surely distressing. Then fate, as in all cases 
of crime, played its master card. My agent, Robert 
Albert, picked it up, so to speak. For the sake of my 
readers and the protection of the public, I am not per¬ 
mitted here to state just what that card was, except to 
say that it led our trail back into the wholesale de¬ 
partment. It involved the shipping clerk and a driver. 
While we were talking to the clerk, word was passed 
around the plant that detectives were busy, and the driver 
left his wagon, backed at the delivery entrance and de¬ 
parted. The clerk confessed to manipulating the rec¬ 
ords, and we recovered thousands of dollars’ worth of 
merchandise he had stored in a little cabin on the out¬ 
skirts of the city. But the driver was gone. His name 
was Johnny MacRay. 

Oh, if this story could only end like all the movie 
scenarios do, but in this case I must tell its ending as it 
happened. 

I sent one of my agents to this boy’s home, as we had 
found some letters from his mother and sister, giving 
their address and which he had overlooked in a bureau 
drawer in his room when he took his hasty flight. My 


46 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


agent was able to secure a position on the ranch in the 
hope of getting some line on the boy’s whereabouts. 

One day a letter came from San Francisco, addressed, 
General Delivery. It was from Johnny. One of my 
agents and I left immediately for the big city to work 
with the Police Department there. Our vigil had 
been kept at the postoffice for several days, when I was 
notified that a young chap was arrested in one of the 
smaller bay cities and they thought it might be our man. 

Accompanied by one of the city detectives, we went 
to this town and were admitted into the cell of the sus¬ 
pect. Yes, it was Johnny, Johnny who had left that 
pretty little orange grove a few years before. The 
strangest part of our meeting was, he called me by name. 
I guess I w 7 as more startled than he because no one ex¬ 
cept the officers had known that I was working on the 
case, and to my knowledge I had never met Johnny be¬ 
fore. 

“Well, my lad, where did you ever meet me?” I 
asked. 

“That’s what hurts, Mr. Harris; that’s what hurts,” 
he answered. “You used to live on a ranch at Charter 
Oak, and I knew your brother and mother very well. 
After you left to go to the big city, I had seen you many 
times in Los Angeles and was tempted to come and give 
myself up after I got in so strong on this deal. And the 
day you came and talked with Richards, our shipping 
clerk, I saw you and knew then that the firm had hired 
detectives and our game was about ended. I just didn’t 
have the nerve to face the music and left.” 

He also told me that the two years after he left the 
ranch were filled with bad luck. He said he, being a 
stranger in the town, could not get work and fell 
into hanging around the pool halls and one day he had 
met Richards, and told him he was out of work and 


THE CALLING OF JOHNNY MAC RAY 47 

hungry. It was then that Richards got him a job driving 
the big wholesale wagon and finally propositioned him 
about robbing the firm. He said there wasn’t a chance 
to lose, as he had charge of the records of all the stuff 
going out to the stores and he had rented a place where 
he could plant the goods, and after they secured enough 
merchandise, they would go to a small town and open a 
store of their own. 

“You know, Mr. Llarris, it all looked so good to me 
that I just fell for the plan from the start. Do you 
know, that since I have been a fugitive, I have tried to 
figure it all out. If I had only got a room in some Chris¬ 
tian family and gone to church like I used to in Glendora, 
perhaps I would not have met Richards and would have 
lived a different life.” 

“Yes, Johnny, but think now, what will your daddy 
and mother and Suzanna think when you go back?” 

“Yes, Nick,” he answered, “that’s what’s hurting me 
now. Because, Nick, I am not going back. I can’t face 
those folks. I can’t even play with Don. I am not good 
enough. I am not going back,” he said, as I shook hands 
with him and told him we would start in the morning. 

On our way back to San Francisco to get our grips 
for our homecoming, I couldn’t quite figure just what he 
meant. As we crossed the bay, I wondered what was on 
his mind when he said he was not going back. It worried 
me all that night. 

Next morning early, my assistant and I left on the 
first ferry for Oakland and to the little town in which he 
was confined in jail. I seemed to have an evil present¬ 
ment that things were not right somehow. Perhaps he 
had escaped and left us to start all over again. 

The atmosphere around the jail seemed different 
that morning as we entered, and I felt that something had 
happened. 


48 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


The jailer greeted us friendly enough, but his fatherly 
appearance seemed changed. I even pictured large tears 
in his eyes as he said: “Harris, your boy has gone. He 
hung himself in the cell last night, but left this note to 
you.” 

I took the slip of torn paper. It read as follows: 

“Mr. Harris, I told you I was not going back. 

Please tell Ma and Dad and Suzanna to forgive 
their Johnny. Tell them I didn t make good. 

(Signed) “Johnny MacRay.” 

Lots more could be written here about the suffering 
and misery poor Johnny brought upon the home of his 
loved ones; but that is not pleasant reading, and so I 
will close this chapter from life by saying, such was the 
calling of Johnny MacRay. It is just another reason 
I think, ‘ Why Crime Does Not Pay.” 


THE SECRET CIPHER 


HP HERE is an intense popular interest in ciphers— 
-*• secret codes, underground methods of communica¬ 
tion by letters, figures or symbols. Entangled with the 
romances of boyhood are the mysterious carvings on trees, 
chalk marks on the barn door, cabalistic designs scribbled 
on paper, that meant anything from the first calf-hood 
love affair to a youthful Black Hand threat. 

Grown-ups, being after all but children with wider 
vision and greater experience, still cling to the mystery of 
ciphers. With what avid attention we “eat up” a cipher 
mystery story! How, during the war, we all scanned 
personal notices in the daily newspapers, reading between 
the simple words of meaningless import, fresh German 
plots with each day’s passing. And how, now, we live 
the mystery of them still! 

The story of Billy Shane is the story of a secret cipher 
code. His name is not truly Billy Shane, but we will call 
him so here, for he has paid the price for what he did and 
he merits the chance he is taking of getting back square 
with himself again. I shall tell the incident as it hap¬ 
pened—the queer chapter of loyalty that blossomed out 
of Shane’s nature amid the weeds of his erratic actions. 

It is apropos that the Shane story be told now. There 
is much in it that resembles the Roy Gardner story. 
Shane was a bank robber. Gardner is a train bandit. 
Both, however, had wives that stood by them to the end, 
that believed in them, that bent every energy of their 
lives to saving the husbands with whom they had thrown 
their lot. And, more important, especially in the Shane 


50 WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 

case, both had little girls in whom the whole world 
centered. 

This, then, is one of the psychologic and psycho¬ 
pathic tragedies of the world of crime—the spectacle of 
a good husband and father going wrong. There seems 
more of a medical than a legal reason for it. Some day 
the state, wise in many ways and stupid in others, will 
work out a remedy. It is certain that the penitentiary 
does not meet the issue. Shane and Gardner are the 
evidences of it. 

Shane was a cashier in a small town bank in the 
middle west. He came there with his wife and a year- 
old baby at a time when a boom was just beginning. He 
secured employment as a bookkeeper for a grain com¬ 
pany, whose head was one of the directors of the bank. 
This director later became the bank’s head and with the 
change in bank personnel which naturally accompanied his 
accession, Shane was moved into the bank on account of 
his dependable qualities. 



























THE SECRET CIPHER 


51 


This was in July of the second year. Shane was do¬ 
ing well then, financially speaking. But the head of the 
bank had taken a fancy to him, as Shane learned late one 
afternoon when he called him into the ornately furnished 
office for a quiet talk. 

“We have been thinking of putting you in Olmstead’s 
place as second vice-president, Shane,” the president said. 
“Of course this is pretty rapid advancement for a young 
man. I am trusting to your common sense and intelli¬ 
gence not to get carried away with this. We like you, 
and we appreciate your management of the bank’s affairs. 
You will be responsible for the deposit boxes and the im¬ 
portant business transactions in which the bank is person¬ 
ally interested.” 

Shane went home walking on air that night. Little 
Ruth, now nearly 3 years old, met him at the door. He 
swung her high on his shoulder and kissed her. 

“Where’s mumsy?” he asked. “Let’s find mumsy. 
I’ve got some big news for her * * * * *” 

“Mumsy” was overjoyed with Shane’s promotion. 

“Oh, Billy,” she said, “now I can have a real home 
and * * * and things * * *” 

They sat long before the fire that night, Shane strok¬ 
ing his wife’s hair as she nestled against him, and planning 
for the future. They had had a long pull since her mar¬ 
riage to a penniless bookkeeper, with nothing but her 
woman’s faith for a balance wheel. Now it seemed that 
the long, hard pull was over and there was to be sunshine 
ahead. 

At 10 o’clock Shane glanced at his watch and stood up. 

“I’ve got to run back to the bank and do some work 
on the books,” he said abruptly. “You run along to bed 
and I’ll be in later * * *” 

He leaned over little Ruth’s crib and kissed her ten¬ 
derly. Then he patted his wife on the shoulder and 


52 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY . 


went out into the night, leaving “mumsy’s” eyes tender 
with love and gratitude for the reward that had come to 
her “big boy.” 

Shane went directly to the bank. He let himself in 
with a pass-key, turning on the light over the cashier’s 
cage. The night watchman, Tom Masson, saw the light 
on his rounds and peered into the bank. He saw Shane 
busy over the books and went his way. It was nothing 
for Shane to be working late. 

At midnight Shane opened a drawer in his desk and 
from it he took a strange package wrapped in canvas. 
The night watchman was at the far end of town, as Shane 
well knew. The rest of the place was asleep. There 
would be no one to disturb him. With careful delibera¬ 
tion, he unrolled the canvas and took out a first-class safe¬ 
cracking outfit. With the sureness of an expert he put¬ 
tied up the crack in the door, leaving a tiny canal at the 
top. 

Into this canal he poured a dark, viscous liquid from 
a glass tube which terminated in a rubber bulb. Then he 
tucked a fuse into the aperture. This done, he ripped 
up the carpet from the president’s office, rolled it into a 
bundle and placed it in front of the door. With the stage 
all set, he carefully pulled down the shades over the big 
plate glass windows that looked out over the main street, 
and touched off the blast. 

The door burst out with a muffled roar, and bounced 
on the roll of carpet. The concussion was heard in vari¬ 
ous parts of town. But in the hills, above the town there 
was a rock quarry which frequently shot off blasts at night. 
Those householders who heard the wrecking of the Citi¬ 
zen’s National bank vault listened for a moment, grunted 
and turned over and went back to sleep. They had no 
reason to be suspicious. 

Shane opened the rear door of the bank and switched 


THE SECRET CIPHER 


53 


on the electric fan. Within a few moments the smoke 
had been cleared out. With the same careful delibera¬ 
tion that had characterized his every movement, he opened 
the safe deposit boxes one by one and sorted the contents. 
He took only coin and currency, stacking it in neat little 
piles and packages on the cashier’s counter. When it was 
all done, he scooped the money into a brown leather grip, 
such as doctors carry, ran up the curtains, snapped out 
the light, and with his overcoat turned up about his ears 
and the grip in his hand, crossed the street and turned the 
corner into a garage run by a man named Williams. 

Shane knew that Williams slept in the place. He 
knocked for some time and finally aroused him. 

“I’ve got to get a train from R— junction in the 
morning,” he said. “I want to rent a machine. I’ll send 
it back by a boy.” 

Williams knew Shane intimately. The transaction 
was arranged without difficulty. Williams brought out a 
fast roadster and filled its tanks. 

“Somebody ill?” he asked. 

“No,” said Shane shortly. “It’s bank business. I 
want to get to the city and back by noon, if I can.” 

The explanation sounded plausible. Williams started 
the engine. Shane jumped in and swung out into the 
main street. Williams locked up and went back to bed, 
grumbling to himself about cashiers that pulled men out 
of bed in the middle of the night—1 o’clock to be exact 
—on a crazy deal. 

The city express pulled through R— junction at 2 :02 
a. m. Shane boarded it and took a seat in the smoker. 
Nearly everyone was asleep, men dozing with their hats 
over their eyes. In one corner a poker game was in 
progress, the players holding a board across their knees. 
Shane flipped the brown leather grip under his seat and 





54 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


settled down. After a bit he lighted a cigar, smoking it 
thoughtfully * * * 

The fare to the city was $12.60. Shane felt in his 
pockets as the conductor paused alongside of him. He 
had only a $10 bill. He went through all his pockets. 
Then he remembered the grip. He stooped over and 
fumbled with the catch. As the grip came open, the 
light from one of the swaying train lights struck squarely 
in it. The conductor’s eyes widened, as he noted the heap 
of gold and currency. 

Shane, with his body bent over the grip, slipped out a 
$10 bill and closed the grip. When he looked up the 
conductor was counting his tickets nonchalantly, his eyes 
on his work. Shane sighed with relief. He had not 
seen. He passed up the hill. The conductor felt in his 
pockets and returned the change. Then he stuck a ticket 
in Shane’s hat and went his way. 

At the door of the car, he turned slowly and looked 
back, his eyes half-closed. Shane was slumped down in 
his seat, looking out of the window. 

The train was on time to the minute. As it pulled 
into the central station, Shane gathered up his belongings 
—his coat and his grip. With his overcoat over his arm 
he sauntered through the hurrying crowds toward the 
exit gates; two strangers detached themselves from the 
crowd and blocked his way. 

“Just a minute,’’ said one of them, fixing Shane with 
a keen eye. “We want to talk to you.’’ 

Shane looked them over coolly. They had “detec¬ 
tive” written all over them. 

“Yes?” he queried politely. 

“We are from the central station—police headquar¬ 
ters,” said the first speaker, showing his star. “We’d 
like to know what you have in that grip.” 

Shane shifted his overcoat and looked them over. 


THE SECRET CIPHER 


55 



Detective Thos. McAnnay said, “I want to speak to you.” 


“That,” he said, “is my business. I don’t know why 
I should be held up here by a couple of policemen.” 

“It may be your business and then again it may be 
ours,” said Detective Thos. McAnnay smoothly. “If 
you are all right—nothing wrong and all that—you cer¬ 
tainly will not object to answering a few questions. We 
have to do these things you know.” 

Shane hesitated. Then he smiled. 

“Certainly, certainly,” he said. “I understand. 1 
beg your pardon. I suppose you fellows are never sure.” 

“That’s it, exactly,” said McAnnay. “ Now . . .” 

Shane brought out a leather card case and extracted 
from it a card bearing his name and business as cashier 
of the Citizens National bank. 

“I have a lot of money with me,” he said, ingen¬ 
uously, “though how the devil you fellows know it, is a 
mystery. Some $20,000 in all. I ran down here to close 

















































56 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


out a deal with the First National ... I have other 
credentials, if you desire them.” 

Detective McAnnay studied the card. 

“Well,” he said, “this looks all right, and we don’t 
doubt but that you have $20,000 with you or that you are 
down here on business. But—does the bank know 
about it?” 

Something in Shane’s face shifted, changed, trans¬ 
formed. It was too subtle for analysis, yet delicate as it 
was, it registered on the detective’s sixth sense and told 
him that his shot had gone home. He played again. 

“You see, Shane,” he said evenly, “a cashier doesn’t 
usually come bounding in here at 5 o’clock in the morn¬ 
ing with $20,000 in a grip unless he’s a damned fool. 
He’d travel in daylight—with that on him, if it was offi¬ 
cial business, wouldn’t he?” 

“Not necessarily,” he replied. “I want to get back 
by noon. I had to leave early to make connections. It’s 
going to hurry me as it is . . . ” 

“The First National doesn’t open until 10 o’clock,” 
said Detective McAnnay quietly. “How did you figure 
on spending the hours in between, Mr. Shane?” 

Something in the way he said Mr. Shane broke 
through the cashier’s control. The blood surged into 
his face. 

“See here,” he said, “I’ve stood about all of this I 
am going to. I tried to be a gentleman and give you in¬ 
formation . . .” 

“I beg your pardon,” put in McAnnay, “that is 
exactly what you have not done. You haven’t answered 
my question yet. Does the bank know about this trip?” 

Shane tried to meet his eyes. He was naturally a 
truthful man. He managed it for an instant, but before 
the other’s steady, suspicious scrutiny, he broke away, 




THE SECRET CIPHER 57 

and the blood slowly left his face. Detective McAnnay 
slowly nodded. 

“You see, Shane,” he said slowly, “it can’t be done. 
You can’t bluff it out. It’ll only make it harder for you, 
boy, to try it. Believe me. I’ve been in the game 
a long time. It will be a whole lot better for you 
to unload than play a lone hand against fate. You’ve 
failed and it might be well to face the issue.” 

Something in the quiet, certain way in which he said 
it reached Shane as nothing else had. He stood for 
a moment with the lights of the city blurring into the 
smokiness of the early dawn, trying to think rapidly, 
and developing only chaos from the process. Finally 
his eyes fell upon the grip and the full force of what he 
had done came home to him. He turned out his hands 
with a little gesture of helplessness. 

“I guess you’re right,” he said. “Let’s have it over.” 

Detective McAnnay picked up the grip. His part¬ 
ner, Detective Thomas Burley, stepped to the other side 
of Shane. With the cashier between them they walked 
over to a taxi and climbed inside. 

“Police headquarters,” said McAnnay, showing his 
star to the driver. 

Fifteen minutes later Shane was in a cell and Mc¬ 
Annay was upstairs in conference with the captain of 
detectives, with a brown leather grip containing $20,000 
in money and currency between them. 

“There’s no robbery reported as yet,” said the chief. 
“The only thing we can do is to wait a couple of hours, 
I guess, and see what develops. You can’t get him to 
ta lk? ” 

“Not a word,” the detective replied. “Shut up like 
a clam when we pinched him and he’s been closed ever 
since. By the way, how did you get the tip on him?” 


58 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


The captain of detectives flipped a telegram across 
the desk. 

“The conductor on the express,” he said. “He used 
to work under me here in the bureau before he took up 
railroading. Pie’s always Johnny-on-the-spot. He got 
a flash at the inside of this grip w r hen the guy was buying 
a ticket; Thought it funny he’d get on at R— Junction 
with a wad like this, and slipped me a wire on a chance 
• • • 

“Can you beat it?” said Detective McAnnay, finger¬ 
ing the yellow blank. “Did you ever know it to fail? 
They plan it all out as carefully as hell, and something 
they didn’t figure on trips ’em up.” 

“Every time,” said the captain. “Every time. Bet¬ 
ter eat and come back. I may have something by that 
time.” 

When Detective McAnnay returned it w T as to find 
that Billy Shane, the trusted cashier of the Citizens Na¬ 
tional bank in a small town, was badly wanted for the 
unexplained robbery of the vaults of the bank in which 
he was just made an official. The captain had had a 
talk with the president of the bank over the long dis¬ 
tance telephone and was pretty well informed as to what 
had occurred. 

“Bring Shane in,” he said, “and let’s get to the bot¬ 
tom of this.” 

The cashier presented a pitiable spectacle when he 
was brought into the office of the captain of detectives 
for his official grilling. His hair was rumpled, his tie 
awry, and there were indications that he had been crying. 
His usual debonair appearance was gone and he looked 
like a man in the last throes of despair. They sat him 
down where the light from an east window would shine 
in his face, and began the arduous task of securing a con¬ 
fession. 


THE SECRET CIPHER 


59 



But in this they were balked—absolutely and en¬ 
tirely—for in the few hours Shane had been left to him¬ 
self to work out his position, and understand his situa¬ 
tion, he had made up his mind. He flatly refused to 
answ r er their questions. Threats, cajoleries, arguments, 
availed them nothing. He was obdurate. Finally the 
captain gave it up. 

“Let the sheriff come and get him, he’s the most 
obstinate mule I ever saw.” 

And so Billy Shane went home—back to the little 
town where he had been trusted and liked, back to 
“Mumsy” and baby Ruth and the boys at the bank. He 
came back with his head down, with a crimson, shamed 
look on his face, his hands working together spasmod¬ 
ically. Ahead was a long gray vista of years in the state 
penitentiary, with no hope of escape and no chance of 





























































60 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


redemption. Tie had robbed and he must pay. Such 
was the law. 

The meeting of Billy and his wife and baby Ruth 
will be passed over. These are not pleasant to read or 
contemplate. Only one—“Mumsy”—saw in his face 
something that the others missed—something that wrung 
her heart as nothing else could have done, it was a queer 
baffled expression of puzzlement * * * she clutched him 
by the shoulders. 

“Boy,” she said, “just tell me one thing. I’m going 
to stick . . . only tell me, why did you do it?” 

Billy Shane, bank robber, raised his head and looked 
into the eyes of the woman he loved most in all the 
world. In his face there was something of sheer won¬ 
derment she could not read—something that he himself 
could not understand. 

“Kit,” he said, “I—I don’t know. I’ve tried to an¬ 
swer that question to myself up there in jail, and I 
couldn’t. I don’t know. I don’t know. God knows I’d 
like to know.” 

He buried his face in her hair and the sheriff turned 
away with a lump in his throat, while they cried together 
•—with little Ruth clinging big-eyed to “Daddy’s” coat 
and not understanding it all any better than the rest of 
them. 

And so Billy Shane went to the penitentiary—ten 
years was the sentence. He went out of the lives of 
“mumsy” and baby Ruth, shackled to a deputy sheriff. 
To her dying day “Mumsy” will never forget the look 
in his face—the dumb, mute appeal that he gave her as 
the doors of the courthouse closed behind him and shut 
him out of her life. There was behind it all a big, un¬ 
answered question—a question that many a poor devil 
has tried to answer and has never been able to: 

“Why, oh, why did I do it?” 





THE SECRET CIPHER 


61 


There were long hard days after that. “Mumsy” 
was left all alone with baby Ruth on her hands. She had 
to find work, and that had to be accomplished in the 
city. For in the little town where they had lived, she 
was a convict’s wife, but in the city she was nobody. 
And nobodies can exist in the cities if they are not too 
particular. 

Billy Shane, known as a number entity now on peni¬ 
tentiary records, wrote often to them both. His letters 
were always cheerful and aopeful. 

“I am doing fine now,” he said in one of them. 
“They have made me a trusty . . . Love and kisses 
to little Ruth. Buy her a big teddy bear and tell her 
Daddy sent it. Please don’t let her forget me.” 

The first page of love and kisses was never sent. 
Prison authorities are weary of blank white pages cov¬ 
ered with crosses. “Mumsy” came one day to see Billy, 
and for the first time learned that the letter had been 
rifled. She went to the warden, sobbing. 

“Oh, if you only knew what that would mean to little 
Ruth,” she said. “That’s all she has of her daddy 
—those kisses. I can’t bring her here—to see him.” 

The warden had a couple of children of his own. 
His heart was touched. 

“All right,” he said, and straightway issued orders 
that Billy Shane’s page of kisses to little Ruth could be 
sent with his regular letters to his wife. 

Thereafter prison censors smiled when they studied 
the letters from No. 56,789. There was always a blank 
white page there—“kisses for baby Ruth”—they tucked 
them back carefully in the envelope, resealed as is the 
prison custom, and dropped it in the mail box. 

So matters went for a month, two months. And 
then one day—shortly after a visit of “Mumsy” to Billy 
Shane^a visit from which she came away bright-eyed 



62 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


and a little flushed—something happened to disturb the 
even tenor of the penitentiary routine. There was a 
sensational prison break, and Billy Shane, No. 56,789, 
was the one who got away. 

How he managed it was shown clearly when the cor¬ 
ridor guard, missing him at morning roll-call, entered 
his cell and found the bars filed neatly through and his 
bedding knotted in a rope. The discovery was made 
only after Shane had been gone several hours, but the 
dragnet went out just the same. He was fingerprinted 
and photographed and the police departments all over 
the country only had to turn to a card index to meet him 
face to face, staring up at them. 

Somewhere near a thousand detectives started look¬ 
ing for Billy Shane. The warden bethought him at once, 
of “Mumsy.” He got the city department on the long 
distance. 

“Better watch her,” he suggested. “Shane was 
always strong for his wife and kid. He’ll connect with 
them sooner or later.” 

Two detectives hurried up to the address the warden 
had given—a cheap lodging house in the poorer district 
of the city. There they found the dark, poorly ventilated 
rooms which “Mumsy” occupied with little Ruth. A 
woman across the hallway cared for the child during the 
day while “Mumsy” was at work. At night she heard 
them romping together. 

But—“Mumsy” too, had flown, and with her went 
little Ruth. The detectives found nothing in the room 
but evidence of a hasty departure—and a few blank, 
white sheets scattered here and there on the floor. One 
of the detectives gathered these up and took them along 
to the captain. It was all they had for a clue. 

“Carefully prearranged,” said the captain, when they 
told him of their findings. “Let’s see those sheets.” 


THE SECRET CIPHER 


63 


They laid them out on the captain’s desk—half a 
dozen soiled papers, marked with crosses in lead pencil— 
“Kisses for baby Ruth,” inscribed in Shane’s handwriting. 
The captain and his men humped over them, trying to 
make out a code or a cipher of some kind. Finally the 
captain sank back. 

“I guess they are what they seem to be,” he said, “but 
I am not satisfied.” 

He called in a handwriting expert. The expert 
thumbed his nose and held the papers up to the light. 
Then he struck a match and held it under the sheet near¬ 
est his hand. The others watched him in fascination. 
Slowly, like a dream materializing into a reality, care¬ 
fully drawn brown letters began to show on the paper. 

“ . . . a small file, and smuggle it in when you 
come next time. God help me—it is my chance to get 
away from this hell and start a new life. I know you will 
come.” 

These were the words that came out under the in¬ 
fluence of the heat. The handwriting man looked up. 
“Lemon juice,” he said. “He wrote in lemon juice with 
a wooden toothpick. Heat brings it out. It fades after 
a bit and the paper turns white again.” 

So this was the answer. They heated the other 
sheets, and the whole thing became as clear as crystal. 
“Mumsy,” always loyal, always clinging to the faith that 
she had placed in her “big boy,” had received his secret 
messages in the innocent appearing pages that carried 
“Kisses for Baby Ruth.” It was so simple it was ele¬ 
mental. It was she, of course, who had brought him the 
file with which he had engineered the escape. One sheet 
contained the trysting place: 

“ . . . steamer on the 10th for South America 
>> 

• • • 

That was all. With the riddle solved, the captain 


64 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


jumped to action. But he was too late. The steamer 
had left. And it carried no wireless, for in those days 
the radio had not come into its own. And somewhere, 
southbound on the Atlantic, were Billy Shane and 
“Mumsy” and Baby Ruth, striking out like pioneers of 
the early days, into a new country for the beginning of a 
new life. 

It may be said this is all wrong—that Billy Shane 
should have paid the penalty for his misdeed. But should 
he? That is a big question and one that the world is try¬ 
ing hard to answer to itself right now. Billy Shane was 
not correctly balanced. He was subnormal. He was 
a riddle even to himself. Under different conditions, 
different environment, and changed climate, might he not 
develop into a valuable, useful citizen? The world will 
say—no. The world is wrong. 

Billy Shane today is a big character in South America. 
That is why I am not using his true name. But Shane’s 
true name comes in over the southern cables now and 
then, attached to big enterprises. He has made good. 
He has squared his account with life. He has mended 
the weak link that snapped back there in a little country 
town with $20,000 in bank money within reach of his 
fingers, and has become a powerful, strong citizen. 

And right now, the bank that prosecuted him would 
be proud to shake his hand, for it, too, learned the lesson 
which every big institution has to learn—that, where 
human elements are concerned and where big strains are 
imposed, it is best not to place temptation loosely and 
carelessly where the weak links ride. This is a good rule 
of financial mechanics. 

I will not say that I am glad Billy Shane escaped from 
jail, escaped the long prison term, any more than I am 
willing to say that I am glad Roy Gardner escaped. But 
I do say this: That by so doing, Billy Shane has turned 


THE SECRET CIPHER 


65 


himself into a useful, honest, fair-playing citizen. Would 
he have become that had he remained in jail for the ten 
years to which he was sentenced? 

The answer lies with you. 


CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE 


T T was in late October. The night was rainy. An 
early storm had swept down on the city, plucking the 
telephone wires into a wailing frenzy and screaming 
madly around corners. Indoors, with a comfortable fire 
between us, we discounted the storm over a humidor, and 
talked of many things. 

“Circumstantial evidence—” I began. 

“Is the bunk,” supplemented Jimmy the Rat. 

He leaned forward and tapped the table with a lean 
forefinger—a forefinger that was as sensitive to the thrill 
of a falling tumbler as a watchmaker’s finger, to the twist 



Indoors, over a humidor, we discounted the storm and talked of 

many things. 






















































































CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE 


67 


of a cam. In the firelight, his lean, gaunt face grew sud¬ 
denly haggard. Into his eyes came a glint of something 
almost forgotten—some past memory that refused to 
down. 

“You—” 

He nodded. 

“I know,” he said, “better than—you do.” 

There was something in the way Jimmy spoke that 
made me halt my remark, leaving it unfinished. Jimmy 
and I often talked together in the evenings. Jimmy had 
“gone good” as the saying is—reformed. In the years 
that I had followed the detective game, dipping deep into 
life from the dark and seamy side, I had more than once 
found Jimmy right. There are some phases of life that 
a professional burglar knows better than any other. So 
I waited. 

“Ever hear of the Camison murder?” asked Jimmy, 
suddenly. 

I pondered. There was a certain vague familiarity 
about the name, Camison. Ah! I had it—Charles 
Camison—a banker. Of course, that is not the right 
name. The true name is something like that. For our 
purpose here, Camison will do. 

“I recall it slightly,” I said. “Let’s see—he was—” 

Jimmy the Rat held up his hand. 

“Don’t spoil it,” he said. “Let me tell it.” 

He rolled one of his eternal cigarettes. I sank back 
in my chair and prepared for a thrill. When Jimmy 
talked, I usually got a new angle on people, things—on 
crime itself, frequently on the inside of cases that had 
puzzled me. Jimmy was a blank under cross examina¬ 
tion or questioning of any kind. But left to himself, with 
the circumstances right— 

“It was a night like this,” he said, waving his cigarette 
toward the outer darkness and storm. “Old man Cami- 


68 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


son, if you will go back, had a handsome shack up on 
Terrain boulevard—in the thirties, I believe. I had had 
my eye on that joint for some time—a swell, three storied 
place all decked out in Moorish settings, with a flock 
of flunkies and a million bucks worth of gardens. Do 
you remember it?” 

I did distinctly—better than Jimmy knew. In my 
early days as a “dick” I had been detailed to guard a 
mass of expensive wedding presents when old Camison’s 
daughter was married. On that occasion I carried away 
a very definite impression of a succession of elaborately 
furnished rooms, ornate halls, over-embossed niches and 
a general prodigality of equipment that characterized the 
newer order of quickly acquired riches, developed through 
the medium of oil lands. 

“Well,” Jimmy continued. “I waited for a good 
night. I knew there was some fine pickings in there—cut 
glass, silver and maybe a sparkler or two laying around 
loose on the dressers. When the rain moved in, so did I 
—after two days getting the run of the joint and piping 
ofl the night hack (night-watchman) and the time he 
rung in from a garage in the rear of the place.” 

He smiled and squinted at the fire over the end of his 
cigarette and I could see that the vision he was conjuring 
up had at least one pleasant element in it. 

“The cop on the beat,” Jimmy went on, “hit the cor¬ 
ner at midnight. The night hack went off for lunch at 
that hour and came back at 12:30. In that half hour I 
figured I could scuff the joint, pick up whatever was loose, 
and beat it. I knew there was a safe there but I wasn’t 
tapping boxes in those days, so that didn’t worry me any. 

“The lights went out at 10. 

“As I figure it now, some downstairs servant had 
turned in. I stamped around in the rain under a tree at 
the corner of the grounds, waiting for midnight to come 


CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE 


69 


along. About 11 o’clock a machine slid into the drive 
and old man Camison got out. He opened the door with 
a latch key and showed himself upstairs. I could follow 
him by the lights. The car parked in the garage and I 
guess the driver went to bed there. 

“At 12 o’clock, the night hack and the cop walked 
down the street together. It took me two seconds to 
cross that lawn to a conservatory window I had spotted, 
and another two to slip a jimmy under the catch on the 
French shutters and get inside. I pulled the shutters to¬ 
gether but left them unfastened for a quick get away. 
Then I looked the joint over.” 

The house as Jimmy described it was clear cut and 
sharp, like a bit of scenery illuminated by a flash of light¬ 
ning. Knowing Jimmy’s habits I could see him, in my 
mind’s eye, studying the “lay” of the house with his elec¬ 
tric torch shaded with a bit of perforated tape which he 
always used. That tape was Jimmy’s own idea—a tiny 
hole—just big enough to provide a stray beam through 
the center, and all the rest in darkness. 

“The silver was a cinch,” Jimmy was talking again. 
“They had it all out on the sideboard. Being Camison’s 
house, I didn’t have to do any sorting. I knew it was 
genuine, even before I hefted it. I took a tablecloth 
off a small stand, piled the whole business into the center 
and gathered up the four corners. There was a bunch of 
gold filigree dessert spoons on a shelf—a fancy little 
handout, and I shoved those into my pocket.” 

He stopped and his face grew hard as he flipped the 
stub of his cigarette into the fire and watched it curl into 
a glowing ember. 

“I was just about to back out of the place—to make 
a good, clean get away,” he said, “when something hap¬ 
pened. You know how it is—when you are on the job— 
your nerves get kind of keyed up. You hear things and 


70 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


then again you don’t hear ’em. Get me ? Standing there 
beside that heap of silver that would have put me on 
easy street when I got it hooked, I heard something. 

“It sounded like a thud—like somebody had dropped 
something. I didn’t hear anything else, just that. It 
might have been a servant jumping out of bed in his 
bare feet, or something dropped somewhere upstairs— 
something ran up my spine and my impulse was to run. 
At that I might have stuck it out but a blamed clock in the 
hall struck once. 

“Now I found out afterward that the clock was fast 
—nearly 20 minutes fast. It was about 10 minutes past 
12 when that clock struck, as a matter of fact, but you see, 
I didn’t know that. I thought I had taken longer than I 
figured. I remembered that the watchman got back at 
12:30 to the minute, and I saw r myself walking into a 
trap.” 

He shifted in his chair and lighted a fresh cigarette. 

“Well,” he said, “we all lose our nerve some time. I 
lost mine right there. I had planned the whole business 
so carefully that when I thought I had fumbled on the 
time, my only thought was to get away. You won’t be¬ 
lieve it, Nick, but I beat it out of there and left that silver 
lying on the floor. I was in what a Britisher calls a ‘blue 
funk’ I guess.” On the outside the storm bit down with 
icy teeth into the city’s canyons and swirled the sleet into 
forgotten corners with chilling emphasis. Jimmy the 
Rat shivered and moved closer to the fire. 

“Well, the little Old Bad Luck Jinx must have been 
on my trail that night,” he went on. “The night hack 
was just coming up the front walk as I slid out of the 
window. I waited until he turned the corner of the 
house and scooted for the sidewalk across the lawn. Just 
as I hit the level a big harness bull that was standing 


CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE 


71 



“Hello, Jimmy! Back at the old game, eh?” 


behind a palm not three feet away, reached out a paw and 
nailed me by the neck and spun me around. 

“ ‘Hello, Jimmy,’ he said, as the light from the arc on 
the corner hit me in the face. ‘Back at the old game 
again, eh?’ 

“You see, he knew me for doing a stretch in the big 
house a couple of years before. And he was on to my 
game. He gives me a wise look and takes a squint at the 
house. Then he remembers the watchman. 

“ ‘Huh,’ he says, ‘got scared out, didn’t you, Jimmy?’ 

“ ‘Yes,’ I said, brave as a lion, ‘and before I got in, 
too. Can you beat that for rotten luck?’ 

“As I said, he was a wise looking cop. And he was 
wise, too, as wise as he looked. 

“ ‘That remains to be seen, Jimmy,’ he says, nice and 





















































































72 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


quiet, and right there I knew it was no use to try to kid 
him out of it. 

“Well, he marched me down to the box and from 
there to headquarters in the wagon. I was feeling as 
cocked as a squirrel in Central Park when they took me 
into the frisking room. I thought of that silver lying 
back there on the floor of old man Camison’s house, and 
I began to laugh.” 

A grim smile flickered for an instant on Jimmy the 
Rat’s face as he thought of the scene. Then— 

“Well, I didn’t smile long. A dick ran his hand 
down in my pocket and out came those gold filigree 
spoons—the ones I had shoved into my coat and forgot¬ 
ten. He spread them out in his hand and held them in 
front of my eyes so I could see them. I took one look 
and right there I knew my goose was cooked.” 

Jimmy the Rat leaned forward and stirred the fire 
into life, sending a shower of sparks scurrying up the 
chimney. 

“That was about 1 :30 a. m.,” he went on. “They 
mugged me and put me in a cell and I climbed in between 
the blankets, glad to get some sleep. It had been cold 
work, standing out there in the rain shadowing old Cami- 
son’s house. Anyway, a jail was more or less comfort¬ 
able with a blizzard coming up and the thermometer 
away down in the basement. 

“It was about dawn—maybe a short time before—I 
don’t remember now, I was awakened by a light shining 
in my face. I opened my eyes. There were three dicks 
standing alongside my bunk. 

“ ‘Get up, Jimmy,’ says ‘Big Dave,’ Scanlan, one of 
them. ‘We want to talk to you about a little job you 
did.’ 

“I gave ’em a mean look. 

“ ‘For the love of Mike,’ I said. ‘Can’t you wait till 


CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE 


73 


morning? You know I cleaned the joint. What’s the 
idea of pulling me out of bed on that. You got the stuff.’ 

“Big Dave shook his head and his eyes never left my 
face. 

“ ‘It ain’t the robbery we’re talking about, Jimmy,’ he 
said. ‘It’s that other matter.’ 

“Well, Nick, that brought me up on both feet. I 
haven’t been trailing underground without knowing when 
something’s in the wind. I gave Dave the once over. 

“ ‘Spit it out, Dave!’ I says. ‘I don’t get your drift.’ 

“ ‘I’m talking about Camison—about the murder. 
You know about it, don’t you, Jimmy?’ ” 

Jimmy the Rat leaned forward, his face tense. 

“Say,” he asked, “did you ever get hit in the solar 
plexus? Right smack in the core? You try to shut your 
mouth and you can’t. Everything goes up and down in 
waves. Well, that is the way I felt at that moment. 
Old Camison croaked! 

“ ‘Dave,’ I said, ‘you got me dead wrong. If old 
Camison’s been snuffed, it’s not on me. I never croaked 
a guy in my life and you know it.’ I got scared out—right 
there something hit me. It was the memory of that 
funny sound that I had heard—the sound that had fright¬ 
ened me. Dave was watching me like a hawk. 

“ ‘Come on, kid,’ he said. ‘We know you didn’t do 
it. You never had the nerve. But who was your pal ?’” 

Jimmy the Rat twisted around in his chair. His face 
was suddenly drawn and haggard. 

“Well, that was the lay of the case. Dave worked on 
me, and so did the rest of ’em. They were sure I had a 
pal who had croaked the old millionaire while I was 
cleaning up the loot. All the talking I could do didn’t 
help me any. They stopped about 8 o’clock and I spent 
two hours of hell after being questioned, talked to, grilled, 


74 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


and put through a cross examination that would have 
turned me against my own mother. 

“At noon I sent for a dick I had seen walking in the 
corridor. 

“I found out afterward he was captain of the dick 
bureau. There was something about him I liked. You 
know what I mean—he had a square face. I didn’t think 
much of any of ’em, but I knew instinctively I could trust 
him. He came in smiling. 

“ ‘Well, Jimmy,’ he said, ‘going to come through?’ 

“ ‘No,’ I said, ‘I ain’t got nothing to come through 
with. But I’m going to tell you something.’ 

“He sat down on the edge of the cot and rolled a cig¬ 
arette while I made my spiel. I told him the whole 
works from beginning to end—just how I got in, what I 
was trying to do, and all. Then I told him about the 
noise upstairs—that funny thud. He listened without a 
word. When I had finished he got up. 

“ ‘All right, Jimmy,’ he said. ‘I’ll give it the once 
over. If you’re lying it isn’t going to do you any good. 
If you are telling the truth, we’ll find it out.’ 

“That was all. He took me on my face value. He 
didn’t ask any questions. He knew when I sent for him 
I wanted him to get me just that way, for whatever you 
can say about it, a dick has a hunch just as often as other 
folks—provided he is a good dick, and this hombre was. 

“What he dug up I never knew. He came back in a 
couple of hours and stuck his head in the cell. 

“ ‘I checked up on that matter,’ he said, ‘and I guess 
we won’t hang the murder on you yet, Jimmy. But it 
was darned close.’ ” 

Jimmy the Rat sank back in his chair and waved his 
hands with a gesture that might have meant many things. 

“That’s about all there is to it,” he said. “They 
slipped me a term in the big house on the spoons and 


CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE 


75 


never a word about the murder. I’ve often wondered what 
he dug up there that wiped up the slate of that. As I 
see it they could have tied the murder on me just as easy 
—that’s circumstantial evidence.” 

The wind was howling now with the full strength of 
an eastern blizzard. Windows rattled and buzzed in the 
casements and the screams of the wires had risen to a 
screech. Neither of us, however, was interested in the 
climate. My own mind was traveling back—skipping 
days and weeks and months like a beam of light. It went 
back to a night similar to this one, when Captain Martin 
Riley, then head of the city’s detective bureau, had asked 
me to go with him. 

“Jimmy,” I said abruptly, “would you like to hear the 
rest of that story—of the Camison murder?” 

Jimmy’s mouth flew open. 

“You—were in on that?” 

“I guess I was the one that cleared you, Jimmy,” I 
replied. 

“I never knew who it was, but I remember Riley told 
me at the time what I had done would save a man’s neck 
from stretching. 

“Man,” said Jimmy the Rat, “I’d give my eye teeth to 
know that. When I came out of the big house Riley was 
dead and none of the others knew the real inside—” 

And so, sitting before the comfortable glow of the log 
fire, I told Jimmy the Rat the finale of his own story— 
the last chapter that he had never heard—the dramatic 
end of Camison the millionaire. 

“Riley and I went up to the Camison house,” I told 
him. “By special orders the coroner had left him just 
where he fell. He was lying face downward in the bath¬ 
room—” 

“With his throat cut,” interrupted Jimmy the Rat. 

“Yes,” I said, “with his throat cut, Jimmy. Riley 


76 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


and I looked around. He was dressed in a bathrobe. 
His shaving things were laid out on the washstand. His 
shaving brush was on the shelf, covered with lather, still 
wet. As the police had reconstructed the crime, his mur¬ 
derer had stepped up behind him as he stood before the 
mirror shaving, and cut his throat from ear to ear. 
There may have been a struggle—we could not tell. One 
thing was queer—the razor was missing. Riley thought 
it had been taken away by the murderer to prevent finger¬ 
print work, but I hardly believed that. 

“While Riley was moseying around through Cami- 
son’s effects, looking for a motive, I examined the body. 
On the tips of the fingers of the left hand I found two 
severe burns—bad burns, right into the flesh. I looked 
at the other hand. There was a burn in the palm of that. 
I called to Riley. 



On the tips of the fingers I found two severe burns. 

































CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE 


77 


“ ‘I begin to see light here,’ I said. ‘What do you 
make of that?’ 

“Riley studied it for a long time. Then he shook his 
head. 

“ ‘I give it up Nick,’ he said. ‘What do you make 
of it?’ 

“ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I think it is the answer to our crime. 
If it is, it is the oddest killing that has ever happened in 
the city.’ 

“ ‘Let’s have it,’ said Riley. He was always impatient. 

“I reconstructed it for him in brief, just as I shall give 
it to you, without going through all the long chain of links 
that flipped through my head when I saw those burns. 
Camison had returned home that night, as you saw him, 
very late. He intended going out early in the morning, 
as we found out afterward. So he decided to shave him¬ 
self. 

“Standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom he 
started to shave. He turned on one globe of an over¬ 
head bracket lamp just above his head. He shaved the 
sides of his face and started to shave under his chin. It 
was dark under there, the light being above his head. So 
he reached up and pulled the chain of the fixture to turn 
on another light. His hands were wet and you know how 
a leaky fixture will reach for wet hands. 

“When he pulled that chain he got a bad shock—a 
shock that was so severe that it jerked his arms back. 
The hand that held the razor whipped across his throat 
with the muscular reflex—I doubt if he knew what he had 
done until the cut jugular began to spout. Then it was 
too late—” 

Jimmy the Rat sprang to his feet, his eyes gleaming. 

“You mean Camison cut his own throat?’’ 

I nodded. That was exactly what I did mean. That 
was exactly what Riley and I, working far into the eve- 


78 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


ning, determined there in that house with the dead body 
of the millionaire on the floor between us and the telltale 
burns on his fingers for a clue. 

“I told Riley that if the theory held we would find 
Camison’s razor still in the room and quite a distance 
away from the body, where he had flung it with the reflex 
muscular action produced by the sudden shock of the cur¬ 
rent. Riley got down on his knees with a flashlight and 
peered under the bathtub. There against the wall was 
the razor.” 

Jimmy the Rat sank back weakly in his chair, his 
hands working convulsively. 

“Holy smoke!” he ejaculated. “Camison did it him¬ 
self—” 

After a bit he rose suddenly and came around the 
table with his hand out. 

“Nick,” he said, “I got to shake hands on that. You 
saved me from—” 

“Forget it, Jimmy,” I replied. “I am glad I did. I 
guess it taught you a lesson—your narrow escape. I 
know it taught me a lot of things. For one thing, it 
taught me that—” 

“Circumstantial evidence is the bunk!” said Jimmy the 
Rat emphatically. 

“Sometimes, Jimmy,” I corrected. “Don’t forget the 
gold spoons—” 

Jimmy the Rat picked up his hat and climbed into his 
overcoat. 

The only answer I got to that was “good night!” He 
said it with a grin, and went out into the storm, leaving 
me with that sense of satisfaction that sometimes comes 
to a detective as the only compensation in his business— 
the feeling that grows from the knowledge that an inno- 


CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE 79 

cent man was saved from a fate he did not merit through 
a little “head work” at the right time. 

There is no gratitude and little reward in the business, 
and yet, somehow, looking back over the years, that seems 
reward enough. 


THE PAL OF “JIMMY THE RAT” 


^ A REAL pal is the greatest thing in the world, I 
don’t care whether you are a crook or not,” said 
Jimmy the Rat, and he told me the story of “Micky,” the 
“kid who stuck.” It is set forth here, just as Jimmy told 
it to me—probably the one human being in the world in 
whom he confided. 

Jimmy was a reformed burglar, pickpocket, “night 
prowler”—what you will. He would have been rated 
by a psychologist as entirely wanting in those qualities 
that made for moral responsibility. Yet, deep down in 
the heart of this misplaced atom of humanity, doomed to 
eternally work out his redemption in this or some other 
life, lurked wholly likable qualities that placed him apart 
from others of his class. 

One such was his affection for Micky, an irresponsible, 
tatterdemalion and born hobo, who had two front teeth 
missing, a cheerful grin and a pair of Irish eyes that 
owned to no possible origin save the Emerald Isle. 
Thrown together one night in a boxcar while beating 
their way out of a middle-west town, a mutual liking 
sprang up. It was only a matter of hours before they 
were “pals”—a relation whose strong-riveted links are 
stronger among certain human strata than any brace of 
handcuffs ever made. 

“Let’s make a try for a handout,” said Micky, as the 
train bowled along at a merry clip. “I ain’t et since day 
before yesterday.” 

“Nor me,” said Jimmie the Rat. 

He peered through a crack in the door. The lights 


THE PAL OF “JIMMY THE RAT” 


81 


of a town were just ahead—a water tank stop and then 
the station. The station spelled possible trouble for 
them, for there were always “harness bulls” and “rail 
dicks” hanging around such points. 

“Let’s shake the rattler at the tank,” counseled 
Jimmy. 

His partner nodded. Together they swung wide the 
boxcar door. As the train ground to a halt with pinwheels 
of fire whirling from the tight-locked brake shoes, the 
two swung off into the darkness and struck out for the cen¬ 
ter of town. 

“There’s a joint here I know,” said Micky. He was 
more of a globe trotter and “bo” than Jimmy the Rat. 
He had, as he frequently boasted, underground “hang¬ 
outs” from coast to coast, where he could “lie up” for a 



The two swung from the box car into the darkness. 












































































































82 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


season or whenever a “clue sniffer” got on his trail. One 
such lay here. 

The “joint” proved to be a poolroom and bar—a ren¬ 
dezvous for a certain type of yeggs and crooks that fre¬ 
quented that section of the state. It was managed by 
Big Joe, a huge, red-faced, scowling bandit, with a quick 
trigger finger and reputation not too savory, even among 
his associates. 

One of Big Joe’s assets, as Jimmy found out that 
night, was a big safe of ancient design, in which were a 
number of small safe-deposit boxes. These boxes Big 
Joe rented to sundry of his “customers” for their private 
“docooments,” although it was generally understood that 
the boxes housed loot taken in holdups and robberies 
which it was unsafe for the perpetrators to carry on their 
individual persons. 

With Micky leading the way, the two dusty, grimy 
travelers, fresh from the brake rods of a transcontinental 
limited, entered the place. They received no heartfelt 
welcome from the bull-necked proprietor. He permitted 
them to buy a round of drinks. Then he leaned over the 
counter. 

“Kick in,” he said. “Whatcha want?” 

“Nothing, Joe,” said Micky easily. “We’re beating 
it west and just blew in.” 

Big Joe gave him a suspicious glance. 

“Well, keep blowin,” he said truculently. “I don’t 
know you.” 

“But, Joe—” protested Micky. But the other cut 
him short. 

“Aw, get out o’ here!” he growled. 

He reached behind the bar. 

Micky read the handwriting on the wall. One of two 
things was wrong—either Big Joe feared that they were 
prohibition officers, or else they had no “reputation” in 


THE PAL OF “JIMMY THE RAT” 


83 


that district. In the latter case, it was well known, as 
Micky explained afterward, that Big Joe never permitted 
strangers to hang around his place. It was too risky for 
him, in his capacity as a “fence” or receiver of stolen 
property. 

Cold, hungry and disconsolate, Micky and Jimmy 
the Rat started up the street to find another haven. A 
policeman, who had been watching them over the top of 
Big Joe’s door, to withdraw into the shadows as they came 
out, came suddenly from the saloon, which they had left. 
He had stepped inside for a word with Big Joe, and what 
he learned had decided him. 

“Come on, you bums,” he said, as he caught the two 
weary wanderers by an arm each. “You’re no good. 
You don’t belong here. I guess we’ll tuck you away, 
where you can’t do any harm.” 

“Aw, hell!” growled Micky. 

He knew, better than Jimmy the Rat, just what was 
ahead. His fears were borne out the next morning when 
the police judge, a cantankerous old fossil with a sense of 
his own importance, gave them thirty days each— 
“vagged” them, as Micky expressed it—and ordered them 
to clear out at the end of that time. 

The thirty day sentence for “doing nothing” embit¬ 
tered both Jimmy and Micky. They had come into the 
place with no grievance against any one, no intention of 
committing a crime, and no desire for aught but a place to 
sleep, a bite to eat and a chance to “hump” with the day¬ 
light. But the sentence revised all that. When they were 
discharged, one August afternoon, and stood blinking at 
the unaccustomed daylight, it was with a well-formulated 
and carefully-worked-out plan burning in the breasts of 
both of them. 

During the period they had spent in jail, Micky had 
worked out a solution of their arrest. It was Big Joe! 


84 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


He had tipped off the “cop” to their presence in town— 
to their being strangers in the poolroom. Micky under¬ 
stood thoroughly. Big Joe was protecting himself. The 
“cop” had to make an arrest now and then. Joe, like the 
squid, was fogging his own presence by directing atten¬ 
tion to someone else. 

But—Big Joe had made one mistake. He had not 
thrown them out soon enough. He had let them remain 
just long enough for Micky’s keen eyes to take in the an¬ 
cient safe with its strong boxes, and to appreciate the per¬ 
sonnel of those in the room. In that instant there had 
been telegraphed in his alert brain the information that 
there was money in that safe—plenty of it. Out of that 
realization had been born a plan. 

They had five dollars between them. Micky sug¬ 
gested that they rent a room, as in that way they would 
avoid being “vagged” by the authorities if picked up 
again. So after considerable search Jimmy located a 
lodging house run by a Mrs. Monahan, where one could 
slip in and out without attracting any attention. Micky 
paid the woman in advance for a week, and tucked the 
receipt in his pocket. 

At 2 o’clock the following morning Jimmy the Rat 
and his pal, Micky, gained entrance to the place of Big 
Joe. By some necromancy of his art, Mickey had man¬ 
aged to scrape up enough “soup,” as nitro-glycerine is 
called by his craft, to “work” Big Joe’s “box.” They 
had worked out the details carefully, counting on fast ac¬ 
tion and Micky’s knowledge of the country to effect their 
escape. 

The plan worked, as Micky expressed it, “like a 
banana peel on the front steps.” Ten minutes later, with 
the front crack of the door all neatly puttied, and a rug 
rolled in front of the door to take up the impact, Micky 
touched a match to the fuse in front of the safe and blew 


THE PAL OF “JIMMY THE RAT” 


85 


off the door. Almost before the dull echo of the explo¬ 
sion died away Jimmy was into the boxes, handing back 
coin and bills and stuffing all he could grasp into his own 
pockets. 

They were so engaged when a “night-hack” as a night 
watchman is known, disturbed by the sound of a seemingly 
distant explosion, decided to take a look at Big Joe’s safe 
to see if everything was as it should be. He slipped his 
pass key into the lock of the front door, half opened it on 
its hinges, and sprayed the interior with his night lamp. 
In the rays the figures of Micky and Jimmy the Rat stood 
forth in bold relief in front of the looted safe. 

There was a rear door that led to a basement under¬ 
neath Big Joe’s place. Jimmy the Rat darted for it, call¬ 
ing to Micky to come. Instead, Micky closed with the 
watchman as the latter fired at him. The bullet whizzed 
past his head and buried itself in the plastering over the 
head of Jimmy the Rat as he made the half-open door 
and darted from the steps. 

As he reached the bottom he heard the gun crack 
again, and then the shrill treble of the watchman’s whistle. 
It was too late to go back now. Micky was either dead 
or captured. He could not help him. The whole town 
would be aroused. It was a case of save his own skin, 
and that quickly. He groped around, feeling in the dark 
with his hands like a blind man. Finally he fell over a 
rope and tumbled head foremost onto a canvas floor. It 
was a prize ring in which Big Joe used to stage fights on 
special occasions. 

There were many footsteps up above now. Men 
were running to and fro. There were voices. Fran¬ 
tically Jimmy burrowed around in the dark, seeking to 
find some avenue out of the hole in which he had trapped 
himself. It was only a matter of minutes before they 
would search the basement. The light from a street 


86 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


lamp struck full on his face, and he glanced up. There 
was a window, barred. 

“Come on, boys; the other one is down here!” 

The voice was that of a policeman and a beam of light 
from above wavered on the stairs and danced about ques- 
tioningly. Frantically Jimmy the Rat ran toward the 
darkest corner, to encounter a big, old-fashioned furnace, 
cold and cheerless, anchored to the floor. He tested the 
door with quick, hasty fingers. It was his only chance. 
With the sound of approaching feet whipping to a frenzy, 
he threw back the door and crawled inside the furnace. 

Jimmy was not a big man, else he would not have 



It was his only chance. 
















































































































































THE PAL OF “JIMMY THE RAT” 


87 


made it. As it was, he had just time enough to get his 
feet inside. His head was against the flue. By stretch¬ 
ing his neck in a badly cramped position, he could peep 
through the grating in the furnace door. 

Within a few moments the basement was filled with 
“harness bulls”—police in uniform. Finally the voice of 
a policeman cut in: 

“He must have got out of here,” he said. 

Jimmy, crouching down in the furnace pit, took a long 
chance and peered through the grating. There, directly 
across the basement from the furnace, was a door leading 
into a back alley and safety. And, miracle of miracles, 
the door was wide open! 

If he had gone to the left instead of to the right when 
he first came into the basement, he would have encoun¬ 
tered the door instead of the furnace and he would have 
gotten away. Cramped in his narrow cell, he almost 
wept with chagrin as the realization of this was driven 
home. 

The police were apparently satisfied with this solution 
of the affair. He heard them talking of the capture of 
Micky, how the watchman had stunned him by a blow on 
the head. With his own escape problematical, Jimmy 
felt something come up in his throat. 

“Poor Micky,” he murmured, “he was a good pal, he 
was.” 

The police remained in and about the poolroom the 
balance of the night. Jimmy hoped they would go away 
and give him a chance to make his “getaway.” But they 
did nothing of the sort. With his last chance gone with 
the daylight vigil in his narrow pen, praying that some¬ 
thing would happen that would work his release. 

The day passed with hours of acute agony. When 
the dark crept in, Jimmy almost dead from numbness and 
exhaustion, took his chance. He swung back the door, 


88 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


worked his feet out and fell rather than crawled to the 
floor. There he lay until the circulation came back into 
his paralyzed limbs. An hour later he staggered from 
the place through the side door he had missed the night 
before, dirty, soot covered and hungry, but safe. 

The room he and Micky had rented was in a cheap 
lodging house in the working district. Jimmy attracted 
no attention as he walked along the street. He looked 
like an oiler or a stoker on his way home, and as there . 
were quite a few railroad men in the place, his unkempt 
dirty condition directed no unusual interest toward him. 
Gratefully he climbed the stairs to the room. He would 
bathe, get some of the grime off, dig up a meal and then 
sleep. After that he would see what he could do for his 
pal Micky. 

He placed the key in the keyhole and swung back the 
door. Two uniformed cops with drawn revolvers were 
standing just inside the door, two huge, bulky figures with 
hard eyes and experienced smiles. They grinned know¬ 
ingly into Jimmy’s astonished face. 

“Hello, kid,” they challenged. “We have been wait¬ 
ing for you all day.” 

Something inside of Jimmy the Rat curled up and 
died, something that had been born of a strange tender¬ 
ness, a queer affection, an odd brotherhood. Versed in 
the ways of the underworld, in the methods of the police, 
there was only one thought that flashed across the screen 
of Jimmy’s comprehension at that moment. Micky had 
betrayed him! 

Weakly he sat down in a chair. The policemen 
looked at him curiously. It was no new sight to see men 
crumble like that. It was part of their day’s work. 
Hence they wasted no sympathy on what was to them a 
routine occurrence. They jerked him roughly to his feet 
swung him around and “frisked” him for weapons. In- 


THE PAL OF “JIMMY THE RAT” 


89 


stead they found a handful of silver and paper, part of 
the loot from Big Joe’s place. 

One policeman looked at the other and a smile of 
gratification crossed his face. 

“Well, I guess we got a live one this time, eh, Bill,” 
he commented. 

“Aw, go chase yourself,” retorted Jimmy the Rat, 
viciously. “Put on the bracelets and let’s have this party 
over. You flatfeet make me sick.” 

Jimmy the Rat had experienced many vicissitudes in 
his criminal career, but this was the first time that the iron 
of bitterness had ever seared his soul. Betrayed by a 
pal! That was something beyond his comprehension. 
He could understand any other form of moral lesion, but 
in that one regard Jimmy the Rat was as immutable and 
unforgiving as time. He was stunned that the one man 
on whom he had counted for the first time in his life had 
handed him the “double cross.” 

As the district attorney expressed it, there was “noth¬ 
ing to the case.” The man had been caught with the 
“goods,” and, in the case of Micky at least, in the act of 
burglary itself. Both pleaded guilty. Confined in sep¬ 
arate cells, they met only in court. Micky tried desper¬ 
ately to catch Jimmy’s eye, but the other kept his head 
averted, trying to forget the something, suspiciously like 
tears, that seemed to hover for utterance. 

Even when the sentence was passed, sending them to 
the “big house” for a term of years, Jimmy the Rat 
refused to look at his former pal. He was through, 
done, finished. He had been double-crossed and he did 
not even want to see the man that had done it. Finally, 
in desperation, Micky turned to his jailer for an inspira¬ 
tion. 

“He thinks you tipped off the cops to where they 
could find him,” said the guard. 


90 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


A light flashed across Micky’s face. He sprang to 
his feet. 

“Jimmy! Jimmy!” he called. “Don’t let them bull 
you. I didn’t tip the dicks off.” 

Jimmy the Rat did not turn his head—did not even 
look at the man whose agonized cry brought a sharp rap 
from the judge’s gavel. Instead, he rose, and turning 
his back on the other, followed the deputy sheriff, who 
was to take him to the penitentiary from the court room. 

Micky was led out, sobbing and fighting with his 
guards, his last words echoing in Jimmy the Rat’s ears for 
months afterward, to haunt him along with the memory 
of the thing he wanted to forget—the betrayal by his pal. 

Jimmy the Rat was “put away” for four years because 
he was caught with the most loot on his person. Micky 
got a two-year sentence. From the day they separated 
in the court room there was no opportunity given either to 



“Jimmy, Jimmy, I didn’t double-cross you.” 













































































































THE PAL OF “JIMMY THE RAT” 


91 


speak to the other. When Micky’s term expired he tried 
to see Jimmy the Rat, but the latter refused. The mem¬ 
ory of what he attributed to Micky as false friendship 
was too bitter for him to set aside. 

Five years afterward he was in a thieves’ rendezvous 
in another city, far west of the one in which Big Joe’s 
place was situated. There he heard that Micky had been 
killed by the police while robbing a store in the south. 
His dying words, told to an emergency hospital surgeon, 
were: “Tell Jimmy I didn’t double-cross him.’’ 

Jimmy scoffed at the message when it reached him 
through the underground service. He was still bitter 
about the matter. The incident had changed his whole 
psychology of human life. He never trusted anyone 
again as a “pal” although he had many friends. Often 
one of them would approach him with a proposition to 
“pal” with him, and always Jimmy the Rat answered the 
overture in the same sentence: 

“I was stung once,” he would say. 

One day he was arrested on suspicion of being in¬ 
volved in a local theft. While he was being held for in¬ 
vestigation by the detective bureau a member of another 
department arrived in the city for a prisoner that was to 
go back with him—a detective from Big Joe’s town. He 
recognized Jimmy, and they talked over the saloon rob¬ 
bery. Jimmy expressed bitterness over the part Micky 
had played. The detective looked at him curiously. 

“Jimmy,” he said, “for the sake of your dead pal I’m 
going to tell you something. Micky didn’t give away on 
you at all.” 

Jimmy the Rat sprang to his feet, something within 
rushing to the surface in a pent-up flood. He clutched 
the other by the arm. 

“What’s that?” he demanded in a hoarse voice. “You 


92 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


“It wasn’t Micky,” said the detective. “I caught 
Micky myself—I was in harness then. When we searched 
him at the station we found a rent receipt in his pocket— 
a receipt signed by Mrs. James Monohan. We hunted 
for a landlady by that name, and finally located her. Then 
we left a couple of boys on watch and you walked right 
into their hands. I thought you ought to know this, be¬ 
cause it’s not right to hang it on Micky.” 

Jimmy the Rat sank back trembling. Micky inno¬ 
cent—Micky, with his Irish eyes, his joyous smile, his 
reckless— 

The detective got up after a bit and tiptoed out. It 
isn’t pleasant, even for a policeman, to watch an ex-convict 
cry. 

This was Jimmy’s story of the only pal he ever had. 
It was the thing that drove him straight, when all was 
done and said. Jimmy himself says he has contracted a 
debt to Micky that somewhere, some day, he will pay. 

“We’re not through here, are we, Nick?” Jimmy 
asked me. “Because—well, I’d like to let Micky know. 
* * * You see, if a guy lives again—gets a chance to 

square accounts, I could go up to Micky and say—” 

I never found out what he would say. Jimmy has 
tried to tell me several times, but always he chokes up 
and goes away hurriedly. For Jimmy’s sake, I hope 
there is another life. 


THE PHANTOM SHOT 


Another Jimmy the Rat Story 

/BROOKS have their peculiar vagaries. Some will not 
work on Fridays. Others eschew the thirteenth of 
the month when planning “jobs.” Walking under a step- 
ladder is considered bad luck, while a black cat encoun¬ 
tered en route to an activity is an omen never to be dis¬ 
regarded. With Jimmy the Rat, bank-worker, safe 
cracker and handy man of crime, a bottle of whisky stands 
for a “peck of trouble.” And thereby hangs the tale of 
the phantom shot that made a prohibitionist out of Jimmy 
in one episode. 

Jimmy is usually a careful worker. When he plans a 
bank robbery or a safe-cracking job, he takes his time. 
He studies the position of the institution, the entrances 
and exits, the windows, doors and light, with all the at¬ 
tention of a stage manager. He is particular about “get¬ 
aways” and such things, and most particular about the 
movements of nightwatchmen, police and plainclothes 
men. It may take him weeks to plan it all out and a few 
seconds to execute it. But when the job is done, it is a 
work of art. 

Only once did Jimmy slip in his precautions, and this 
was due to the fact that he was cold and hungry, wet, tired 
and anxious for a hot meal and a place to sleep. He had 
“two bits” in his pocket between him and starvation, for 
so he told me the story and it looked like a bad night. 

“Says I to myself,” he said, “ ‘Jimmy, ol’ top, it’s time 
to knock over a can and knock it over fast.’ ” 


94 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


By a “can” Jimmy meant a safe, for in the nomen¬ 
clature of the safe worker’s craft a safe is either a “can” 
or a “box.” “Knock it over” meant, reversely, to open 
it up. Wherefore we have the setting of Jimmy with an 
appetite and a longing for the good things of life that 
could be bought with money, planning the wholly illegal 
and reprehensible task of robbing somebody’s safe. The 
only question was to find the safe. 

With the rain coming down in sheets, Jimmy sallied 
forth on his quest. The night was dark and few persons 
were abroad. Policemen, for the most part, were hud¬ 
dled under protecting doorways with the rain running 
from their uniform slickers in streams, or safely en¬ 
sconced in the back room of some warm saloon enjoying 
the stolen comfort of a glass of warm punch and a good 
cigar furnished by the bartender. It looked, as Jimmy 
expressed it, like a “hot bet” that he would accomplish his 
task. 

Crossing an alley, his attention was attracted to the 
rear of an unpretentious office building. Jimmy hap¬ 
pened to know the building. He had been there several 
months before to have some dental work done. In a 
general way he carried a picture of the interior arrange¬ 
ment in his mind. The offices were mostly those of den¬ 
tists and doctors, and as he recalled it, there was only 
an aged elevator operator on duty. It looked promising. 

With a quick glance up and down the street that con¬ 
vinced him that no wary policeman was watching his 
movements, he slipped into the alley. To his intense joy 
he found a window unlocked in the rear of a display room 
for a millinery establishment whose plate-glass windows 
fronted the street on the other side. It was the work of 
a moment to satisfy himself that there was no burglar 
alarm on the window. The next instant he had the win- 


THE PHANTOM SHOT 


95 


dow open and was inside, feeling his way along the 
aisle formed by cardboard boxes stacked ceiling-high. 

The storeroom of the establishment led to the main 
salesrooms. With only the light from the street lamps 
to guide him, Jimmy scurried along in the shadows until 
he reached a side door that opened into the hallway. He 
tried the latch and found it to be a simple spring affair, 
opening on the inside. He set the catch so it would open 
from the outside, and after making a quick survey of the 
empty hallway, stepped quietly out and closed the door 
carefully behind him. If worse came to worse, this was 
a good escape. 

There was a light shining out of the elevator, making 
a pencil of yellow along the tiled floor. Jimmy estimated 
rightly, that the operator was curled up on his stool, read¬ 
ing, with the doors open ready for business. Carefully 
Jimmy removed his shoes and tucked them under his arm. 
Then, as noiselessly as a shadow, he flitted up the stair¬ 
way to the second floor, from thence going to the third 
and fourth floors. 

There were many lights here and there in the various 
offices, where bookkeepers and conscientious clerks 
humped over delayed work, working far into the night. 
Jimmy smiled scornfully as he thought of these. He was 
the free game, the big stuff. They were ants, atoms—the 
dust of commercialism. They were deposits upon the 
shoes of the bigger figures whose names he saw occasion¬ 
ally in the papers. They thought they were doing some¬ 
thing important. Well—let them. He knew what real 
work was—work with a “kick” in it. His was the man’s 
job. 

The fourth floor was for the most part dark. There 
were a string of offices there. One physician had his 
name on a dozen doors it seemed. Jimmy went softly 
from one to the other, testing the knobs. There was al- 



96 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


ways a chance . . . He could take out the pane of 

glass if he had to, but he preferred the forgotten lock first, 
for, as I have said, Jimmy was more or less careful. 

On the eighth floor, he found what he Sought—an un¬ 
locked entrance. Some nurse, perhaps, had neglected to 
drop the catch. It was the work of a minute to slip in¬ 
side, amid a whiff of anesthetics that puffed out of the 
warm interior, cast about him, and determine that he was 
in an operating room. The instruments stood forth with 
glittering ghostliness in the half light of the room. Be¬ 
yond seemed to be an office. 

Jimmy investigated. Sure enough, as he had hoped, 
there was the official inner office which every physician 
has. Against the far wall of the room was the conven¬ 
tional type of safe which, to a man of Jimmy the Rat’s 
expertness, was as easy to open as an unlocked door. 
Jimmy smiled to himself. It would be a “cinch” job and 
there would unquestionably be good picking here. Men¬ 
tally he rubbed his hands together. He would eat this 
night. 

From an inner pocket Jimmy took out a pair of gloves 
—ordinary silk gloves—with which he usually “worked” 
his safes. They prevented fingerprints and were thin 
enough still to permit him to retain the sensitiveness in his 
fingers demanded by the task of opening the safe by 
“feel.” Then he rummaged through the drawers of the 
flat-topped desk until he found what he wanted—a stetho¬ 
scope—a mechanical ear of more than ordinary delicacy. 

With the tubes in his ears, Jimmy crouched before the 
safe, the bell-end of the stethoscope cupped against the 
flat metal door, his nimble silk-covered fingers busy with 
the knob of the combination. Two, three, five minutes 
passed, as Jimmy, motionless save for his fingers, worked 
with the secrets of the inner tumblers. At length there 
came the sound for which he had waited—a sharp, click- 


THE PHANTOM SHOT 


97 


ing jar. A smile flitted across Jimmy’s face and he sunk 
back with his weight against the handle of the door. 

With the tubes of the stethoscope tucked in his ears, 
he did not hear the clang of the elevator door. He failed 
to note the footsteps approaching along the hallway. 
Only when the man who came quickly down the hall 
paused in front of the door behind which Jimmy was at 
work on the safe, did he become cognizant of his pres¬ 
ence. With a jerk he swung his head around to see 
silhouetted against the glass the shadow of the stranger. 

Pressed right against the safe door, Jimmy held his 
breath. The man stood motionless for a moment. Then 
there was a flash * * * * Jimmy felt a cold, stinging 
sensation on his right breast. He ran his hand under 
his vest, directly over his right lung * * * It came away 
wet. Jimmy staggered to his feet. There had been no 
sound of a shot and yet * * * 



The man stood motionless, then there was a flash. 



















































































98 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


“My God!” he exclaimed. “He used a silencer on 
his gun.” 

Frantically he started to run. Through office after 
office he went, falling and stumbling over furniture. At 
the far end of the suite of offices, he staggered out into 
the hallway. He was panting from his exertions and 
from the great fear that was creeping in upon him. 
Jimmy had seen men shot through the lungs before. It 
always got them in the end. There would be long days 
of coughing. Sometimes it was a matter of hours, and 
the gaunt suffering in the face. He was afraid, for the 
first time in his life. 

He made the lower floor. The aged elevator man 
looked up in wonder as Jimmy the Rat fled past him into 
the night. He finally concluded that it was some belated 
tenant, rushing for a car, and went back to his reading. 
He did not notice that Jimmy held his handkerchief 
pressed tight over a wet spot on his breast or that his 
breath came in gasps. Jimmy himself had no coherent 
idea of where he was going. He could feel that ghastly 
wetness trickling down his body against the skin now. 

The lights of a corner drug store caught his eye. 
Perhaps he could induce the druggist to dress the wound. 
He steered for the spot, his knees sagging. Directly in 
front of the lighted window, he came to a halt. With¬ 
drawing his hand slowly, he forced himself to look at 
the handkerchief he had pressed to the creeping spot of 
dampness. The handkerchief was soaked. So was the 
white silk glove he wore. Jimmy stared, fascinated, 
paralyzed. There was no crimson stain—the awful, tell¬ 
tale crimson he expected to see. There was no color at 
all. Slowly he raised the handkerchief to his nostrils 
and sniffed. * * * 

Whiskey! 


THE PHANTOM SHOT 


99 


Then only did light break. Then only did Jimmy the 
Rat, weak with reaction, lean up against the window of 
the drug store and cling to the stanchion of an awning. 
Then only did the truth of the situation strike home with 
a force that left him weak and nerveless. 

He had a bottle of whiskey in his pocket—in his in¬ 
side coat pocket—when he entered the physician’s office. 
He had the bottle pressed tight against the safe door 
when the man fired at him. * * * 

Jimmy’s eyes opened suddenly and he began to laugh 
—a half hysterical laugh that had relief and incredulity 
all intermingled. 

The flash had not been a gun equipped with a silencer 
at all. The man had halted to light a cigar. The flash 
was the gleam of a match—in that second Jimmy had 
cracked the bottle against the safe door, and the whiskey, 
trickling down his body, cold from the evaporation of 
the alcohol, had led him to believe he was shot. His 
imagination did the rest. 

The real jolt came when, casting a casual eye over 
a morning paper, he found that “the unidentified burglar 
who attempted to rob the safe in the Henshaw building 
overlooked $2500 which was lying on a shelf in an inner 
compartment.” 

“Right there,” said Jimmy the Rat, telling me the 
story, “I became a prohibitionist!” 


> 


THE CAUSE OF DIVORCES 


As Explained by Jirn7?iie the Rat 

N OT so many months ago I was called upon by one 
of the most noted churchmen and social workers 
in California. As luck would have it, when this party 
entered my office I was in the middle of a conversation 
with Jimmy the Rat, and feeling this social worker would 
naturally appreciate meeting this famous character, I 
introduced them to each other. 

We will call this social worker Mr. Waterton. Af¬ 
ter meeting Jimmie and thinking possibly he was one of 
my aids, not knowing him to be one of the most clever 
burglars and safe crackers in America, Mr. Waterton 
proceeded to inform me the purpose of his mission. He 
stated, “Mr. Harris, you are probably more familiar 
with the crime waves now sweeping over the country 
than anyone that I personally know whom I would call 
upon, and the organization that I represent is very de¬ 
sirous of ascertaining some statistical facts concerning 
the question that is of vital importance to the welfare 
of every community. I am going to ask you a question 
which I believe you will be in a position to properly 
answer for us because of your acquaintance with these 
facts. The question is, ‘Can the cause of divorce be 
traced to the present crime wave?’ ” 

I was about to ask Mr. Waterton why he should ask 
me that question when Jimmie the Rat looked up, seemed 
very offended and asked if he might answer that ques- 


THE CAUSE OF DIVORCES 


101 



“Jimmy the Rat” looked up and asked if he might answer that question. 


tion. I said, “Sure, Jimmie, what’s your idea?” and he 
answered: 

“Why, Nick, crime and criminals have very little to 
do with the average divorce cases. As a matter of fact, 
you will find the majority of criminals stick closer to one 
woman whether they be married or single, because they 
are just ‘pals,’ and the only thing that usually separates 
them is the long term in the ‘stir.’ (Meaning the pen¬ 
itentiary.) The average wife of a criminal will stand 
‘pat’ to her husband for at least two years, when she 
gets lonesome and new found friends will oftentimes 
be the cause of her ‘forgetting’ and she may secure a 
divorce, because of the pleadings of these new friends 
that her husband is a convict. But if you want the real 
cause of divorce, this is my answer, and which applies to 
a large percentage of the male population. You ask me 
how it starts. Well, it is very simple. I will give you a 

























































































































































































102 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


few concrete examples taken from my observations as 
I have passed through life. 

“First, did you ever see a swell looking miss being 
most gallantly assisted from an ordinary street car by 
a man? Did you ever notice how he acted toward her? 
In fact, he looked like he wanted to play a Sir Walter 
Raleigh stunt every step from the street car to the curb. 
Well, it’s a safe bet that that sort of a couple are not 
married—to each other. 

“Perhaps the very next day you see this same prince 
of the streets getting off the same car, followed by a 
lady, perhaps really more wholesome and worthy than 
the girl of yesterday, and her arms filled with bundles 
and because of such, she was just a little bit careful of her 
step and just a little slow in getting off, and this self¬ 
same ‘prince’ will cast an icy stare at her over his shoul- 



“Hurry up! You’re blocking the traffic!” 





























































































THE CAUSE OF DIVORCES 


103 


der and blurt out, ‘Hurry up. You’re blocking the 
traffic.’ Well, you can bank on it they are married—to 
each other. 

“Then again, do you recall the many little instances 
that happen every day in our office building elevators 
when a Plymouth Rock chick flits her wings inside the 
coop, all the men hawks break their elbows to doff their 
hats as a mark of courtesy to this little hen. But, when 
our own fair wife enters the cage with us, do you recall 
how we pull the old sky piece down over our ears so the 
draft in the elevator shaft don’t get down our necks? 
Yes, that hurts, but you know I speak the truth. 

“Now, let’s move to our home life for a while. 
When we come home from work, Mary dear has a nice 
steaming supper waiting—you notice I said ‘waiting.’ 
Yea, while we used to wear out our elbows holding that 
evening appetizer over the bar in one of our famous 
drink emporiums while ‘Windy Alex’ would un¬ 
fold a bunch of bunk about his grandfather’s sister’s 
mushroom bed on the old farm, or how his wife forgot 
to put out the cat and he got up and nearly broke a 
toe over a stray chair trying to perform the usual even¬ 
tide exercise, all of which was of no interest to us, and 
yet we would sip our poison fluid and stretch our faces 
out of shape trying to smile at his tiresome story. 

“Well, just as we hit the home cabin we think we 
know what’s coming, so have faked a beautiful lie to tell 
and right away we bring on that overworked, tired bus¬ 
iness man’s appearance, and ask if supper is ready. 
Dear little wife humbly answers, ‘Yes, sweetheart, what 
kept you so late?’ and you pull off that old story about 
being delayed at the office. 

“Meantime, little wife busies herself setting the 
fodder before swine who forgets his bride is present 



104 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


and probably stretching her shoulder out of place trying 
to snare the salt cellar with the tips of her fingers, about 
which time said ‘porcus’ has applied a second treatment 
to his plate, leaving a neat trail of gravy spots across 
the freshly ironed table cloth, all of which could have 
been prevented by a more careful manipulation of the 
tablespoon in the hands of the household lord and mas¬ 
ter, who seemed not to think of the work he could save 
his wife by a little careful effort. 

“You remember these things. Nick, it don’t take 
a detective to tell you that it’s just the little observations 
in every day life like these above mentioned that I have 
noticed, that often start that little drops of water story 
which soon grows larger and larger and every day, un¬ 
til friend wife combs back her hair and finds that she 
is not getting the attention due her that she justly de¬ 
serves, resulting in her seeking other fields of pastime 
than children for a thankless man that hasn’t time to 
shower a bit of affection and consideration so dear to 
the heart of the average present day girl. 

“Now, of course, I have only picked on the male 
species, and to be fair I should mention a few facts con¬ 
cerning the other side and give them their just desserts, 
because you know what they say about the female spe¬ 
cies being more mummified, or something, because you 
know when they are bad, why that deadlier species stuff 
is likened unto a bleating lamb in comparison.” 

It was right here that I interrupted Jimmie and said: 
“Do you know, I believe that you are right, in so far as 
the male species you mentioned are concerned, as I have 
seen these things happen many times myself. Now, with 
reference to the women, let me try to explain things 
that I, too, have seen. 

“I recall once a woman calling at my office and tell¬ 
ing me her husband had disappeared and she wanted me to 


THE CAUSE OF DIVORCES 


105 


find him. I asked her the usual questions to get informa¬ 
tion for the purpose of identification, etc., and wound 
up by asking the lonesome woman if they had ever had 
any trouble. She raised her eyes to Heaven and said, 
‘Bless you man, no. Our married life was ideal. Never 
a cross word. Bliss had reigned in our home like the 
lives of two doves in their twiglet nest.’ 

“I took up the trail from the little home town, feel¬ 
ing foul play had befallen the genial old gentleman, as 
nothing but a serious crime could have separated such 
a dear old couple as had been pictured to me. My entry 
in the home town was a happy event for me, as I was 
sure I could find someone who saw him leave and per¬ 
haps be the cause of my bringing together this 
missing partner of the firm, thereby bringing gladness 
into the hearts of both. 

“Imagine my discomfiture upon being greeted by 
laughter and gibes when I made inquiry concerning their 
fellow citizen who had so mysteriously disappeared but 
a few days before. One dear old lady said: ‘Is that old 
heifer bawling for her calf again? Why, man alive, he 
has gone to see his mother to find out if insanity runs in 
his family.’ Another said: ‘Yes, he left town because 
he had a chance to work in a slaughter house and he 
wanted to know how much beating a brute had to take 
before it killed him.’ With a few more such remarks I 
made up my mind to find out what was the cause of this 
comment and why he left. 

“Hence, upon investigation, I found that he and his 
wife had lived in a small cottage that one might think 
was the Temple of Filth. Discarded tin cans, rubbish, 
papers and trash scattered all over the yard where sweet 
wife had conveniently tossed them upon preparing her 
usual meals. The interior of the house looked almost 
as bad as the yard. Anything but neatness prevailed. 


106 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


On several windows I found blankets had been tacked 
up, and I was afterward told, it was for the purpose of 
keeping the sun and draft out of the house, as she would 
allow no ventilation to circulate inside this Palace of Joy. 

“It was one morning that the final trouble broke 
loose. Husband had arose and because of the darkness 
of the kitchen, had torn down one of these blankets 
when he was informed that she was the boss there, and 
to make it more impressive she backed it up by crown¬ 
ing him with a nice large coffee pot of hot liquid, and when 
he remonstrated with her, it was in the midst of an egg 
frying episode, and having a nice large half fried egg 
resting conveniently on the pancake ladle, she let this 
fly, making a safe hit on the pinnacle of friend husband’s 
nose. This naturally riled the old gentleman up to such 
a state of mental distress that he left the house that same 



She let the half-fried egg fly at his head. 












































































THE CAUSE OF DIVORCES 107 

day, selling out his business, and left for parts unknown 
at that time. 

“It took my agent, Frank Edmonson, now sheriff of 
Vernon, Tex., some three months to finally locate him 
in southern Florida, where he refused to effect a recon¬ 
ciliation with his wife, but as I understand, made pro¬ 
visions to provide for her as he does not have to live 
with her. 

“In cases of young married couples I have noticed 
many of their troubles start through petty jealousies 
caused sometimes by the new wife meeting and calling up 
former sweethearts, only to be found out later by the 
young husband. Where the seed of distrust has been 
planted, the green-eyed monster called jealousy creeps 
into the heart of man, and soon ends in the husband 
employing detectives to verify his suspicions, and in many 
cases the investigation develops into discovering clandes¬ 
tine meetings between the former sweethearts and others 
and ultimately ending in the hands of attorneys to be 
carried to its final resting place before the courts of our 
counties. 

“So now you see, Jimmie, I guess that kind of backs 
up your argument and I hope, Mr. Waterton, that you 
will not ask me to try to suggest the cure for these most 
unpleasant features of our existence, further than to 
make these few friendly suggestions, that if men would 
only treat their wives as they used to treat their sweet¬ 
hearts, and if wives would only treat their husbands 
as they used to treat their sweethearts, the machinery of 
divorce courts of today would soon be reduced to a pile 
of rust and junk that would cause society to move it away 
and dump it in the place called ‘oblivion’ where it could 
sink from the sight of man, never to return, and allow 
us to enjoy our lives as originally intended by our 
Creator.” 


THE POLICEMAN’S TRYST 

/ TT V HERE is much of humor in the police and detective 
business. A whole volume could be written on the 
funny things that happen and never see the light of day. 
Of such was the romance pf Policeman Number 111, 
who was lured from the path of duty by the witchery of 
a piquant face, and nearly shocked into bachelorhood. 
Herewith the story of a July tryst, with an oriental 
touch. 

Policeman Number 111 had his quota of romance 
buried deep within his brass-buttoned bosom. He was 
the older of nine boys, with not a girl in the family, and 
he grew up, as many lads do, with supreme contempt 
for the genus feminine in every phase and form. It was 
not a hate—just an indifference, based upon a sense of 
masculine superiority. He felt they were useless ap¬ 
pendages upon the caudal ornament of progress, and 
throughout his younger years he ignored them. 

There was such a thing as love. Of that Policeman 
Number 111 had no doubt. He had seen the word in 
print, he had heard it sung about in popular songs, and 
he had seen men and women do strange and queer things 
when under the mysterious propulsion of its hidden 
forces. But it had never touched him. Love he as¬ 
sociated with women. It was a mollycoddle pastime and 
went with wrist watches, perfumes and such things. He 
in love? “Where do you get that stuff?” 

Such was Policeman No. Ill—blase, indifferent to 
female charms, contemptuous of the “ladies’ man,” and 
wholly superior to the thrills of which the flesh is heir 


THE POLICEMAN’S TRYST 109 

when dainty pink and fluffy visions cross the path of 
vision. At the age of 32 he was a strong, upstanding, 
clean-limbed, flat-thighed, efficient member of a metro¬ 
politan department, assigned to traffic duty. He was 
browned by the wind and sun, healthy, and wore his 
uniform like a glove. He was, in short, in the vernacular 
of his craft, “a handsome geek,” sans pour and sans a 
scrap of reproach. 

Policeman Number 111 was stationed at a certain 
park crossing during the rush hours of the day. Many 
a feminine eye turned his way longingly from behind the 
curtained seclusion of a finely upholstered limousine. 
Many a heart fluttered just a bit at that particular spot 
as he touched his cap in impersonal recognition to the 
tid-bits that fluttered by. But of all this Policeman Num¬ 
ber 111 was wholly unconscious. With him, it was all 
in the day’s work, and his friendly smile had nothing of 



Policeman No. Ill was stationed at a certain park crossing. 

























































110 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


direct interest behind it—only the politeness required 
by his particular brand of duty. 

This story has to do with the month of July, however, 
a queer, upsetting kind of a month. The poets rave of 
the allurements of June—of its weather, of its spring 
stirrings, of the queer thoughts and dreams that go 
pounding through the brains. But they have overlooked 
July when those dreams come true or turn to ashes, when 
the thrills become madness and the virtue of a world-old 
insanity pounds at the temples. A man may fight off 
the insidious temptation of a thrilly June and fall a prey 
to the drunken suggestion of a fragrant July. So, 
Policeman Number 111. 

It was 4 o’clock in the afternoon. A sprinkling cart 
had just passed the crossing on which Policeman Num¬ 
ber 111 was meditating on the miseries of human ex¬ 
istence. A moist, refreshing smell arose from the steam¬ 
ing pavements that had baked steadily in the midsummer 
heat. On the edge of the curb—the park curb—a maid 
from one of the wealthy homes along the boulevard, 
paused to let the stream of traffic pass her—a baby car¬ 
riage containing somebody’s expensive heir, balanced on 
its hind wheels, expectantly. 

Indefinitely might the stage have remained set thus 

but for the appearance of Mrs. Van W-, a prominent 

society woman, enroute to an afternoon bridge party 
with an intimate friend. They were gossiping in Mrs. 

Van W-’s limousine, as women are wont to do, and 

Mrs. Van W-, to be perfectly frank with facts, was 

not paying a great deal of attention to her driving. She 
was on an open boulevard, and the car was rolling along 
easily, Mrs. Van W-at the wheel. 

Policeman Number 111 was in the act of hitching 
up his belt when there came the sudden screech of brakes, 
and a bevy of feminine screams. The next instant, Mrs. 






THE POLICEMAN’S TRYST 


111 



Mrs. Van W’s fancy vehicle pivoted on the wet pavement. 


Van W-’s fancy vehicle pivoted sharply on a wet spot 

left by the passing sprinkler, slewed half around and 
careened into the curb at just the point where the maid, 
with the baby carriage tilted back on its wheels, had been 
but a moment before. As the wheels of the motor car 
struck the curb the glass shattered out of the windows 
with a merry tinkle, piling the occupants in a heap on the 
floor. 

Policeman Number 111 broke into a run. Naturally 
tender-hearted, he thought of a crushed baby, mangled 
through the careless driving of a thoughtless woman, 
which made him sick to his stomach. As he ran, he cursed 
under his breath, both the man who made the automobile 
and the man who permitted his wife to drive it in that 
fashion. * * * He rounded the rear end of the ma¬ 
chine and brought up sharply. 

There, sprawled gracefully on the lawn was the 



















































112 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


pretty little maid, her knees drawn up, her head cocked 
on one side, and the baby in its carriage quite unhurt. 
As Policeman Number 111 plunged into the picture the 
girl glanced up quite calm-eyed, took in his neat uni¬ 
form, and his startled, concerned face, and smiled what 
Policeman Number 111 afterwards told himself was a 
“perfect million-dollar smile.” 

“Oo—Monsieur Gendarme—you look so fonney!” 

Throwing back her head she burst into a peal of 
laughter. 

Policeman Number 111 brought up in amazement. 
He had been smiled at, waved to, cajoled, tempted and 
intrigued. But never before had a pretty girl sat on 
the lawn on a public boulevard and laughed at him. 

A sudden dull flush came into his face and he stood 
up very straight. 

“I thought you were hurt,” he said stiffly. 

A sudden contrition came into the girl’s face. She 
jumped to her feet and laid a hand on his arm. 

“Monsieur,” she said softly, her piquant face up¬ 
turned to his with a look in her eyes that made him 
dizzy, “I am ver’ sorry. It was that you looked so—so, 
oh, so scared. It is not nice of me to laugh, n’ent- 
ee-pas? Please to forgiv’-?” 

The anger in Policeman Number Ill’s soul died 
down, flickered and went out. The color left his face, 
leaving him a tanned, handsome, embarrassed traffic 
“cop” fronting a very pretty maid. 

“That’s all right,” he said. “So long’s you’re not 
hurt, it’s all right,” he said. And then he added some¬ 
thing which surprised him almost to death when he 
thought of it afterward, for never in his whole life had 
he said a thing like that to a woman. 

“I wouldn’t want that to happen to you,” said Police¬ 
man Number 111 firmly, not looking at the girl. 




THE POLICEMAN’S TRYST 


113 


The little maid stood for a moment in silence. Then 
she reached out and patted him on the hand—the hand 
which he used to halt traffic on his corner day after day. 

“Oo-la-la,” she said. “That is a—ver’ pretty thing 
to say, Monsieur Gendarme.’’ Only she drawled it en- 
trancingly so that his part of it sounded like “Jean- 
darme,” with the accent on “Jean.” 

She turned to the baby, tucked it in, gave it a motherly 
pat, and flashing the traffic regulator a ravishing gleam of 
white teeth and crimson lips, disappeared down the boule¬ 
vard. Policeman Number 111 stood watching her in 
silence, a new and wholly original series of emotions flit¬ 
ting through his consciousness. Only when someone 
touched him on the arm and remarked in a harsh tone: 
“Young man, will you listen to me!” did he return to the 
realization that Mrs. Van W— had arisen from the floor 
of her damaged limousine and with as much dignity as a 
woman of fifty can maintain with her best hat cocked 
over one ear, was trying to explain how she came to 
make such a mess on the city’s main boulevard. 

The day \tas all different for Policeman Number 111 
after that. For the first time in his life he noticed that 
there was a bird on a tree. Also that a girl in a machine 
that went by had a blue flower on her hat. Also that 
children were cute little devils after all. There were 
a lot of things that Policeman Number 111 had over¬ 
looked, it appeared. All the way home that night, back 
to his modest room in Mrs. Tim Riordan’s boarding 
house, he marveled how much of life had escaped him. 

He did not see the maid until two days later, when 
she suddenly appeared at his elbow as he stood for a 
moment beneath the shade of a friendly tree and mopped 
his forehead. 

“ ’Elio, Monsieur Cop,” she challenged. “You will 
not ’ave to save me, today.” 


114 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


Dynamite! Electricity! T. N. T.! Policeman Num¬ 
ber 111 rose to the occasion—magnificently. 

“That’s too bad,” he said gallantly. 

The vision in white cap favored him with another 
of her wonderful smiles. 

“Oh,” she questioned, “you lak do that—again?” 

“Every day in the week and—and then some!” Po¬ 
liceman Number 111 spoke emphatically, his breath 
coming a bit short. 

“Oo—you know what I seenk, Monsieur Gen? I 
seenk you are ver’ nice boy.” 

Policeman Number 111 took a cautious look up and 
down the boulevard. Then he stepped a bit closer. 

“Same here, Marie,” he said daringly. “You’re a 
nice girl, too!” 

The girl’s eyes widened. 

“Oh, you know my name!” she said in surprise. 
“How you know zat?” 

Mon. Gen., otherwise known as Policeman Number 
111, executed what is known in diplomatic circles as a 
“coup cordiale.” 

“It’s a long story,” he said smoothly. “If I was off 
duty now I could tell you all about it—” 

Which is pretty good work for an inexperienced 
policeman having his first fling at the intricate and thorn- 
strewn road of romance— 

The evidence in the case of John Doe Eros, alias 
the God of Love, versus Policeman Number 111 has 
been submitted to the Court of Time from behind closed 
doors. We, of the general public, are not permitted to 
hear it. But, of the results that were the outgrowth of 
that famous case much can be said. 

Policeman Number 111 went off duty that night 
with something singing in his heart. He had made his 
first “date” with a girl—with Marie. He could hardly 


THE POLICEMAN’S TRYST 


115 


believe it. He caught himself thinking how different 
their understanding was from that of other persons. He 
even smiled, tolerantly, as he passed a couple on an up¬ 
town bus, the youth’s arm around her waist. If that was 
Marie now—Policeman Number 111 straightened up 
suddenly. It would not do to go along blushing on the 
street that way, and he a copper. 

Marie had said for him to call on her at 8 o’clock. 
She was employed at the De Courney mansion, a short 
distance from the spot where he stood and directed traf¬ 
fic during the hot summer days. She had explained in 
her delicious French-American patios that she had never 
before entertained company and that her mistress might 
object, and would he come to her quarters over the 
garage. 

“Ze door—she will open,” she had said. “Maybe, 
I will look for you—maybe not.” 

Of course he knew that she would be looking for 
him. She had said he must be very quiet—they could 
talk for a while—if her mistress did not object, later 
she might receive him in the kitchen. But tonight, her 
room over the garage. 

Policeman Number 111 ate his dinner abstractedly. 
Mrs. Riordan, his ubiquitous landlady watched him 
closely as he guarded his secret from a jealous and 
critical world. She made “Irish turkey” and it was 
Number Ill’s favorite dish, and yet he pushed back his 
plate with the contents half eaten. 

“By golly. I’m wonderin’ if it’s himself that’s in 
love!” She speculated sagely through a crack in the 
door. 

Thus does the general law of average upset the best 
laid plans of mice and men, and a traffic policeman. 

If this was a film, a “cut-back” would show Marie, 
hurrying through her evening chores so that she might 




116 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


rush out to her room over the garage and add a bow 
there, and a pat here in honor of her forthcoming cav¬ 
alier “Mon. Gen.” Not being a film, we will have to 
spend the next sixty minutes with Policeman Number 111, 
pacing restlessly along the streets, awaiting the hour of 
8 o’clock to come. Under his arm, wonder of wonders, 
was clutched a five-pound box of “elegant” chocolates. 
Verily, Policeman Number 111 was a changed man. 

At 7:45 o’clock to the minute, an ice wagon, be¬ 
longing to the General Ice Company, locked wheels with 
a taxicab belonging to the General Taxicab company, at 
the corner of the boulevard where Policeman Number 
111 attired in a nice new Stetson hat, was enroute to 
keep his first “date.” The conversation became im¬ 
mediately general, also the honors going to the iceman, 
who possessed the more fluent vocabulary of the two. 
The controversy smote upon Policeman Number Ill’s 
ears. 

Technically, Policeman Number 111 was “off watch.” 
But technically also Policeman Number 111 was always 
“on duty.” His day’s work was done it was true. But 
he was a sworn officer of the law and that was a constant 
condition, a state. Hence, whenever any infraction oc¬ 
curred within his presence, whether he was on watch 
or not, it was his business to step into the situation and 
preserve the public peace. Such was the motive that 
actuated him when he turned the corner of the boulevard 
in time to hear the iceman remark to the taxi driver in 
Billy Sunday accents that his, the taxi’s driver’s parents, 
had proved the correctness of Darwin’s theories beyond 
the shadow of a doubt. 

“Hey,” said Policeman Number 111. “Cut out the 
comedy, what do you think this is—the casino?” 

The iceman looked at the taxi driver. Instantly 
they buried their enmity, born of the locked wheel, and 


THE POLICEMAN’S TRYST 117 

turned on their common enemy, the representative of 
the law. 

“Aw go chase yerself, you big buttinsky.” 

Which episode explains why it was that at precisely 
8 o’clock when Policeman Number 111 should have 
been climbing the garage stairs to Marie’s apartments 
he was, instead, standing in the precinct, nearly a mile 
away, engaged in booking the remnants of what had once 
been a perfectly good iceman and a fairly efficient taxi 
driver for “disturbing the peace, loud and boisterous 
language, and resisting an officer.” 

There was a long delay incident to the arrest of the 
two prisoners. They had to be taken to the emergency 
hospital and epidermically vulcanized in sundry places, 
where Policeman Number Ill’s club had played a 
xylophone solo in an effort to drive home the idea that 
a policeman never “chases” himself but frequently 
chases a lot of other persons. After which they were 
again returned to the precinct station and shown to a cell. 
Then only did Policeman Number 111 glance at the 
desk sergeant’s clock, whistle softly to himself and hurry 
away to keep his long overdue tryst. 

After some difficulty he finally located the garage 
of the De Courney mansion. It was situated at the end 
of a long graveled drive and stood forth dark and un¬ 
inviting. A sudden fear clutched at the heart of Police¬ 
man Number 111. Suppose she had gone. And he had 
no palliative, the box of chocolates long since fallen by 
the wayside when he locked up the two boulevard com¬ 
batants. It was an inauspicious beginning. 

He tried the handle of the garage door. It yielded 
softly. Policeman Number 111 smiled. She was wait¬ 
ing for him after all. She had left the door open. 
Softly he stepped inside. A stairway at the right led 
to the upper floor. Carefully guided by his flash lamp 


118 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


he stepped over the tools that lay scattered on the floor, 
made for the stairway and creaked upward. At the top, 
another door led to an inner compartment. This, too, 
was unlocked and with his heart thumping with excite¬ 
ment and romance, Policeman Number 111 pushed it 
wide and stepped inside. 

There was a single window in the room—a bedroom, 
apparently. The light from a corner arc fingered the 
sill of the window, spread across a bed in the corner of 
the room, and brought out the figures on the carpet un¬ 
derfoot. On the bed an arm flung across the coverlet, 
a dark braid dropped carelessly over the pillow, lay a 
still figure. In its absolute silence Policeman Number 
111 could hear a rhythmic breathing—her room! 

He thrilled at the thought. It was the first time he 
had ever been in a girl’s bedroom ... It was some¬ 
thing sacred to him . . . like a shrine. He held his 



On the bed lay a still figure. 






























































































































THE POLICEMAN’S TRYST 


119 


breath, wonderingly . . . Should he step back into 

the hallway and knock, or should he stay where he was 
and call aloud . . . She had grown tired of wait¬ 
ing for him . . 

Suddenly it occurred to him that he was in somewhat 
of a predicament; if he startled her and she began to 
scream and aroused the household, he would be in rather 
a mess. And Marie, how about her? On the other 
hand, he was already in her room. If he attempted to 
leave, she might hear him go out and scream, thinking 
him a burglar, and again the same thing would ensue. 

All of Policeman Number Ill’s professional training 
came to his rescue as he turned over plan after plan in 
his mind, only to discard them instantly as impractical. 
He was in and he could not get out, and he could not 
wake her, and he could not stand there all night 

In moments of stress, great thoughts occur. One such 
hit Policeman Number 111 behind the ear with the force 
of one of “Babe” Ruth’s homers starting for the Rio 
Grande. Somewhere, when he was a child, he had read 
a story—a story of a Princess and a Prince—a Prince 
who awakened his lady-love in a way that had not startled 
her. Standing alone in the dark, Policeman Number 111 
blushed a hot crimson at the suggestion, but he clung to 
it nevertheless. He would kiss her—Marie . . . 

His decision made, Policeman Number 111, with a 
fluttering solar plexus, tiptoes softly to the bedside of 
the sleeping figure. Her face was in the dark, but a 
faint, delicate perfume that was strangely familiar, 
struck upon his nostrils and intoxicated him. He felt 
himself engulfed in a wave of romance, of intrigue, of 
dizzy sensation. It was the biggest adventure of his life 
. his greatest moment. 

Slowly, cautiously, he leaned down and pressed a 
chaste lover’s kiss upon the dainty lips of . . . 



120 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 

“Hey—whasha malla, washa malla . . . Gee 

mom—quock lui bong goy . . . whasha malla you 

• • • • 

Policeman Number 111 sprang back into the shadows 
as an unmistakable Oriental figure rose suddenly from 
the bed at the impress of the kiss, and with its cue flying 
in the air, burst into Chinese imprecations and shrieks of 
terror. 

Only for an instant did he stare at the apparition, and 
then, without a moment’s hesitation, he turned and fled 
—out into the hallway, down the garage stairs and along 
the graveled drive—while the Chinese cook, for such it 
was, made the night hideous with his startled jargon. 

Somewhere near dawn, Policeman Number 111 
turned his steps wearily up to the front entrance of Mrs. 
Riordan’s select boarding-house and flung himself down 
on his bed. He was tired, spent, irritated, exhausted, hu¬ 
miliated—a lot of things. He did not know that Marie’s 
mistress had been taken ill and Marie had been obliged 
to stay in the house that night, and that the Chinese cook 
had taken advantage of her absence to “steal’’ a sleep in 
a sacred place. All that impressed Policeman Number 
111 was that he had given his maiden kiss to an Oriental 
-Faugh! 

At the assembly the following morning, the precinct 
captain instructed the various patrolmen to be on the 
lookout for a man capable of wearing a new Stetson hat, 
size seven and one-half, who had attempted to rob the 
De Courney home. The burglar had left his hat behind 
him, after he had been frightened away by the Chinese 
cook, the captain said. 

Policeman Number 111 followed the captain’s out¬ 
stretched finger. There on the “exhibit” board in the 
assembly room, hung his new twelve-dollar Stetson hat— 

Of course there is a finish to this story. Marie and 



THE POLICEMAN’S TRYST 


121 


Policeman Number 111 had it out the next morning. 
Marie explained about her mistress’ illness and she was 
so “ver’ sorry” she had missed keeping the appointment, 
and Policeman Number 111 bethought himself of the 
iceman and the taxi driver, and he was equally sorry 
that he had been unable to keep the appointment, and so 
they made another and much more satisfactory “date” 
which led to others. And in the course of time, ad lib, 
Policeman Number 111 kissed Marie. 

Marie, the little devil, smiled up at him from under 
the shadow of his shoulder, and asked him the question 
Mother Eve asked Old Man Adam back in the Garden 
of Eden: 

“Mon. Gen.” she purred, “deed you efer kiss zee girl 
before ?” 

Policeman Number 111 blushed unseen in the dark 
and snuggled Marie closer into his grasp. 

“No,” he said, “I didn’t.” Then he choked a bit— 
“I—I kissed a Chink once,” he confessed. 

Down in police headquarters, a dusty Stetson hat, 
size seven and a half, still hangs on a nail in the property 
clerk’s room—unclaimed! 


THE SOWARDS MURDER 

T HERE is a queer characteristic possessed by every 
good newspaper man and by many detectives that 
stumps psychologists, medical men and professional 
writers of fiction. It is the ability to “feel” a crime in 
the air—to sense its approach, to know almost to the hour 
and minute when something is going to “break” and just 
what it is. 

Persons not engaged in either business cannot under¬ 
stand this and put statements of it down as exaggerations. 
But time and time again I have seen it w r ork. I have 
known reporters to look at a clock and remark that such 
and such a thing was due to occur, and within an aston¬ 
ishingly short period of time it DID occur. The thing is 
explainable only on a psychic basis of some kind—the 
registration of occurrences in process of happening upon 
perceptions long trained in probabilities, perhaps. 

So on the night the Sowards murder broke. There 
was the crime “feel” in the air—the gruesome, strange, 
tense gnawing at the pit of the solar plexus that those of 
us, long at hand grips with the sordid side of life, call a 
“hunch.” It was so strong with me that I could not get 
my mind off of it. I was a police reporter for a Los An¬ 
geles morning paper at the time, detailed at police head¬ 
quarters, and the responsibility of keeping track of police 
events rested upon my shoulders. 

Nervously I paced the press room. Outside it was 
raining in sheets—one of those cold, wet, tragic nights fit 
for any crime and fraught with whole regiments of imag- 


THE SO WARDS MURDER 


123 



inative possibilities. After a bit I went into the detective 
bureau. 

“Anything doing?” I asked of Captain Bradish, in the 
usual slang formula of the reporter. 

“Dead as a coffin,” said the sleuth on duty. “What 
do you expect?” 

“Don’t know,” I answered. “Seems like we ought to 
have a murder tonight ...” 

“Say,” said the detective, “do you know, I’ve had that 
hunch myself? It’s been hanging around for an hour. 
Hope not. It’s a nasty night.” 

Restlessly I started back to the press room. As I did 
so, I heard the jangle of my telephone. Instantly some¬ 
thing telegraphed to my nerve center—jarred it like a 
blow. 

“It’s happened!” I said to myself. 





































































































124 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


I broke into a run, dashed into the room and jerked 
the receiver from the hook. It was my city editor and he 
was in a hurry. 

“Say, Nick,” he fairly shouted over the wire, “a 
woman telephoned in here just now that something bad 
has happened at 700 block South Main street. She 
didn’t say what it was . . . Better grab a couple of 

dicks and slide down there. I’ve got a camera man on 
the way, already.” 

“Right,” I replied, and grabbed my hat and overcoat. 

In the detective bureau my friend, the night sleuth, 
was just getting into a comfortable position. In a few 
words, I told him what I had just learned. 

“I knew it,” he said. “Look at that weather, will 
you ?” 

He grabbed his revolver from the table, slid his 
flashlamp into his pocket, and calling to another de¬ 
tective, who was on duty, ran for the police patrol. 
Within less than five minutes, we pulled up in front of 
the cheap lodging house on South Main street that bore 
the number “707.” Detective Steele led the way. 

We found the landlady in a highly agitated condition, 
with her hair hanging down her back, and several guests 
running around in the hallway, babbling incoherent de¬ 
tails of something “awful” that had apparently taken 
place. 

“What’s wrong here?” asked Craig, the other de¬ 
tective. 

The woman sensed at once that we were from police 
headquarters. 

“Oh, I don’t know . . . It’s terrible, I just 

looked over the transom . . .” She began to weep 

hysterically, moaning that nothing like it had ever hap¬ 
pened in her house before. 

A guest in the place indicated a locked door. 


THE SOWARDS MURDER 125 

“In there,” he said. “There’s blood all over the 
place.” 

We ran to the spot. Craig glanced up at the tran¬ 
som. 

“Here, Nick,” he said, “let me boost you up—tell 
me what you see.” 

He was a powerful man, and catching me around the 
waist, he lifted me bodily so that my chin was even with 
the bottom of the transom. Through the dirty, unwashed 
glass, I could make out in the dim light of a gas lamp 
the body of a man lying on a couch. On the floor was a 
large dark stain. 

I told what I had seen. Craig dropped me on the 
floor and called to the landlady. 

“Hey,” he shouted, “cut out that sniveling and give 
me a key to this room.” 

The landlady relapsed into acute hysteria due to a 
violent attack of imagination. 

“I don’t know where it is,” she wailed. “I don’t 
know where it is.” 

Detective Craig stared at her for a moment. Then 
he smashed his bulk against the door. The catch gave 
with a sudden snap and the door swung back against 
the wall with a crash. A breath of awful, tainted air 
whiffed in our face. 

“Open that window, Nick,” muttered Steele as we 
staggered back from the actual impact of it. 

I ran up a curtain and let in some air. 

The scene in the room was the most sickening I have 
ever seen in my whole life. The murdered man was 
lying half over the couch, partially nude, with his head 
resting on the floor. He had been dead a long time 
—probably a week. His skull had been crushed in and 
there were finger marks on the throat. Blood was spat- 


126 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 



The murdered man was half lying on the couch! 


tered on the walls and on the ceiling. It was as ghastly 
a setting as could well be imagined. 

“Good Lord,” said Craig, usually unimpressionable, 
“this is a regular shambles.” 

We made only a cursory examination. The body 
was already decomposed and any possibility of obtain¬ 
ing a clue to the murderer from it was rendered im¬ 
possible. The other detective started making inquiries 
—the usual kind—of the landlady, now restored to talk¬ 
ativeness by the importance of having a murder in her 
house, and other lodgers. 

Craig went into the office and telephoned to the 
coroner. 

I closed the door after Steele went out. I wanted 
to be alone there for a moment. There might be some 
clue. 











































































































THE SOWARDS MURDER 


127 


A porcelain jar standing beside the cheap wooden 
dresser attracted my attention. I went over to it. It was 
filled with bloody water. Evidently the murderer had 
paused long enough to wash his hands. I peered down 
into it and noted a scrap of water-logged paper that 
had sunk. 

There was no sink in the room. Steele and Craig 
were still out of the room talking to the landlady. I 
did some quick thinking, and then lifting the dirty rug, 
I tipped over the jar and rolled the dirty water along 
the floor, dropping the rug back over the pool. It 
blotted it instantly, covering up the evidence that I had 
tampered with it. On the floor at my feet lay the scrap 
of paper. 

Gingerly, without examining it, I picked it up and 
tucked it in my pocketbook. For first of all, I was a 
reporter, hot on the scent of a murder mystery. I would 



On the floor lay the scrap of paper! 







































































































































































128 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


work with the police in time—such alliances are usually 
understood—but at the first break of the story, what¬ 
ever clues I could unearth were to my individual credit. 
For that matter I did not know what I had, only that 
it was something that the police had overlooked. 

Detective Steele returned after a bit, releasing the 
telephone to my use. I telephoned in the story of the 
murder, adding that the only clue in the case was a scrap 
of burned paper found in a jar in the room. Then I 
went back to the scene of the crime. The coroner had 
arrived and after a thorough combing of the place, which 
revealed nothing of importance we left. Before de¬ 
parting, however, we ascertained from the landlady 
that the dead man was unknown to her. She said the 
room had been rented by another man entirely—one 
who gave the name of Cox. Police search started for 
this man as the probable murderer. 

Back at police headquarters I had time to examine 
my find. It proved to be several scraps of paper torn 
into bits and lighted with the intention of destroying 
them. The person who applied the match, evidently 
sure that they would burn, had tossed them into the 
wash jar, and in the poor air in the bottom of the jar, 
they had burned out. What to do with them? 

Somewhere I had read that wet papers containing 
writing, if pasted on glass, could be read. I went into 
the identification bureau and procured a blank plate 
from the police photographer. Then, hunting out a 
back room at police headquarters, where I would not 
be seen by reporters from any of the other newspapers, 
I proceeded to paste and fit the burned scraps on the 
glass. 

Many of them were missing—probably burned, and 
others were torn in odd shapes and patterns. But grad¬ 
ually, after two hours of unceasing patience, order be- 




THE SOWARDS MURDER 


129 


gan to come out of the chaos. Here and there whole 
words appeared. Finally I got a completed sentence. 
At the end of two hours and a half, I had accounted for 
all of the scraps. * * * * 

The paper proved to be a note for $2,000 payable 
to J. Madison Sowards and signed “Martin E. Cox!” 

The discovery startled me. The man who rented 
the room in which the dead man had been found was 
named Cox—probably Martin E. Cox. Was the dead 
man then Sowards? And who was Sowards? 

There was a telephone directory on the table. I 
pulled it toward me with shaking hands. Sowards— 
Sowards, J. Madison! Proprietor of the Star Loan 
Company with offices in the Copp building adjoining the 
City Hall. There it was, as plain as day—a big man in 
his business, a handler of money. Was the ghastly, 
beaten, mangled, decomposed body in the lodging house 
all that remained of the loan company’s head? That 
question was the big question now. 

I called the number of the loan office. A girl’s voice 
answered. 

“Is Mr. Sowards there?” I asked. 

“Why, no, he isn’t,” she answered. “He’s—are you 
a friend of his?” 

There was plainly agitation in her voice. I resolved 
to play a daring card. 

“Well, not exactly,” I said. “But he didn’t keep an 
appointment.” 

“That’s just it,” the girl spoke excitedly. “He 
hasn’t been here for more than a week. He left to keep 
an appointment. I thought perhaps you—” 

But I waited to hear no more. I slammed up the tele¬ 
phone and ran into the office of Captain of Detectives 
Bradish. There before his astonished eyes, I laid down 
my glass plate with the reconstructed note for $2,000 on 





130 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


it. Then I told him of my conversation with the girl in 
the loan office. His eyes opened. 

“By George, Nick,” he said when I had finished, 
“you ought to be a detective!” 

He detailed Steele and Craig, who had accompanied 
us in the first place, and the three of us went to the loan 
office. It took only a few minutes there to satisfy our¬ 
selves that in all probability Sowards, who had not been 
seen since he walked out of the office a week before, was 
the murdered man. 

“Did he have any money on him?” asked Craig. 

“I don’t know about that,” said the girl. “But he 
had a lot of diamonds. He had loaned some man some 
money on the diamonds and the man telephoned to him 
to bring the diamonds to his room and he would pay 
back the loan and the interest.” 

Steele and I exchanged glances. 

“The man’s name wasn’t Cox, was it?” I asked. 

“Why, yes,” replied the girl in surprise. “I believe 
that it was.” 

That was the end of the case. Sowards had been 
lured to the room, murdered and robbed by Cox, who 
escaped with both the money and the diamonds. He was 
traced to a South American country and later arrested, 
but I believe extradition deficiencies prevented bringing 
him back. 

The important part of this case to me, lies in the 
remark that Captain Bradish made to me—namely, that 
I ought to be a detective. That remark, thrown around 
carelessly, has ruined many a good man. It “did” for 
me, as the English say. I took him seriously and be¬ 
came one. Now, I am writing my own memoirs, which 
proved that it doesn’t pay to joke with a reporter. He 
is liable to take it seriously. 



THE YELLOW SLIP 


^ I v HE sharp, shrill scream of a woman cutting, whip- 
like across the stillness of a July night. 

My cigar described a circle of sparks as I flipped it 
into the street from the hotel veranda and started on a 
run toward the little wharf that fronted the ocean. 
There were several boats tied to the wharf. A white 
spot bobbed in the half light. 

It was the work of a minute to unleash the painter, 
catch up the oars and swing toward it. A woman’s 
fingers clamped frantically on the gunwales. 

“I don’t want to die ! I don’t want to die !” 

Back at the wharf I picked her up, her hair trailing 
over my arms, her soft, summer gown clinging damply 
to her body, and ran toward the hotel. My wife met 
me at the steps, her eyes wide with anxiety. Together 
we carried her upstairs and away from the curious eyes 
in the lobby. 

An hour later, warmed, comforted, her feet in my 
bedroom slippers, she smiled wanly up at us—a mere 
slip of a girl, with the tired lines of the world’s mis¬ 
understandings carved deeply in her face—Mary 
Somerton; more a name to conjure with, a face fit for 
a flower. Then she told us. 

Her husband was in jail—a minor offense, a check 
drawn against a wrong account. The disgrace had over¬ 
powered her. She had wandered down to the wharf. 
The pall of the moon, the strange iridescence of the 
water, the slow swing of the tide— 


132 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


“I don’t know why I jumped, only that I wanted 
to rest.” 

That opened the mystery of the yellow slips—not 
then, but the next day when I went to see the husband 
and told him what had happened. He fainted dead 
away in his cell. Revived, he proved a likeable chap 
with a strain of weakness, but wholly contrite. Two 
months later he had made good, and he and Mary went 
out of my life. But that night. “I am going to do some¬ 
thing for you, Harris,” he said, “because you have 
cared for Mary. I haven’t any money, but I have in¬ 
formation that may be of value.” 

He had a cell mate, whose name I have forgotten. 
They had grown chummy. This man knew three girls 
in Los Angeles who were making a business of working 
department stores—turning them into a “mint,” he said. 



“I am going to do something for you!” 























































THE YELLOW SLIP 


133 


They had “worked” other cities and, so he alleged, had 
“cleaned up big.” They were just starting again. 

“He doesn’t know their game,” young Somerton ex¬ 
plained, “but here is the address-the X apartments 

on Olive street. The girls are Jean, Edith and Clara—I 
don’t know their last names. This may be of some help.” 

I thanked him. Tips come to a detective in various 
ways, and this was undoubtedly genuine. At the time 
I was handling the business for a number of big depart¬ 
ment stores and the matter of three professional “work¬ 
ers” was of more than passing interest to me. 

The campaign against them was mapped out from 
my office. The stellar actors were Operatives Nos. 1 and 
2, whom I knew I could trust implicitly. Sitting in con¬ 
ference we outlined exactly how we would proceed in 
the matter, and pursuant to that arrangement, they took 
up the trail of the three girls that very day. 

We located the girls without any difficulty. That is 
to say, we located two of them. They were supposed 
to be sisters and gave the names of Edith and Clara 
Johnson, occupying Apartment No. 31. They were 
well behaved, quiet in their habits, entertained no com¬ 
pany and at home, at least, led exemplary lives—a fine 
setting against which to stage almost any line of action 
of an illicit nature. 

Adjoining apartment No. 31 was apartment No. 32. 
I knew the manager of the place, and it was easy to ar¬ 
range with him for a room adjacent to the apartment 
which we had set out to watch. With this arrangement 
perfected, the two operatives settled down to the hardest 
part of all detective work—the day and night “shadow¬ 
ing” of some one under surveillance—the nerve racking, 
tiresome vigil of ceaseless observation. 

The girls led an even life, one almost wholly devoid 
of incident. The movies occasionally, and a cafeteria 






134 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 



She did business with a tall blonde! 


rather than cafes for dining purposes. But the day 
following we began to pick up the threads. 

At 10 o’clock in the morning, Clara left the apart¬ 
ment and went to Bullock’s department store, where she 
spent considerable time in the suit department. She did 
business with a tall blonde salesgirl, whom we afterwards 
ascertained to be Jean Parsons of St. Louis. She pur¬ 
chased a suit and asked to have it charged, giving the 
name of—we will say, “ Mrs. George Landis,” a well 
known customer. 

The salesgirl took the charge tag to the cashier’s 
window. The cashier scanned the scrap of paper. The 
name “Landis” was thoroughly familiar to him. He 
turned to the girl. 

“Do you know Mrs. Landis personally?” he asked. 

“Oh, yes,” said Jean. 

“This is Mrs. Landis, herself?” 









































































































THE YELLOW SLIP 


135 


“Oh, yes.” 

The cashier nodded, marked “o. k.” on the tag and 
handed it back. The girl returned to her department, 
turned the tag over to the head of her department with 
the remark that it had been “o.k.’d,” and wrapped up the 
suit. Clara, alias Mrs. Landis, walked out with the 
suit under her arm. 

Of course when the operatives reported this to me, 
I knew that I was on the right trail. Plainly the girl 
had “done” the department store out of the suit. We 
could arrest her then and there, for there was no doubt 
in my mind but that Mrs. Landis had not authorized her 
to buy anything at that store. In fact, I was morally 
certain that Mrs. Landis had never heard of her. 

But I had a “hunch” that there was more behind this 
thing. It had been done too easily. The girls had 
plenty of clothes and from the kind of stuff they were 
wearing it did not strike me that they would bother with 
a $65 suit, which this one was. It seemed to me that 
there must be something more behind it all. So I resolved 
to play a waiting game. I instructed Operatives 1 and 2, 
giving them orders to keep a close watch on the two 
women. 

That night my men got the surprise of their lives. 
There was a knock on the door of the girls’ apartment. 
Peeking from the door of apartment No. 33, Operative 
No. 2 saw the tall blonde salesgirl from Bullock’s de¬ 
partment store. The girls greeted her affectionately 
as “Jean” and invited her in. There was dinner on the 
table, and it was apparent that Jean was expected. With 
the air filled with the odor of good things to eat, the 
three sat down to a real girls’ feast, and the sort of 
chatter that occupies the attention of women when alone 
together. 

Within three feet of their heads as they sat, was a 


136 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


dictagraph tucked neatly inside the “bell” top of their 
chandelier, with the wires leading down inside of apart¬ 
ment No. 33 to the ears of my listening operatives. 
Every word that they said was as clearly audible in the 
next room as though the operatives sat at the table with 
them—a fact of which they were, of course, entirely 
ignorant. 

There was considerable talk about social dates, 
references to coming trips, to a “run” up to San Fran¬ 
cisco. And then: 

“That was a nifty suit.” This from Jean. “It is 
one of the best in stock. You had better bring it back in 
the morning.” 

That was all—“You had better bring it back in the 
morning.” Another mystery! If she had stolen the 
garment, why bring it back? 

In the adjoining room the two operatives, humped 
over the dictagraph, exchanged glances. They listened 
intently for additional scraps of conversation that would 
furnish further clues. But nothing of importance de¬ 
veloped. The blonde girl remained several hours, later 
going home. She was not shadowed. We could find 
her when we desired. 

In the words of the fiction writer, the plot was be¬ 
ginning to “thicken” rapidly. First off there were two 
girls, one of whom had stolen a suit worth $65 with the 
aid and connivance of a second girl, employed as a sales¬ 
girl in the store. Second, there was a third girl yet to 
be accounted for—Edith. What was her “game”? 
Third, after stealing the suit, Clara expected to return 
it. That the whole was part of a well worked out pro¬ 
gram was evident from the very casual reference which 
Jean made to it. It was apparent on the very face of 
the matter, that they were but following a customary 
procedure. 




THE YELLOW SLIP 


137 


The following day Operative 3 was added to the 
staff on duty at the apartment house. He did not enter 
the building. Instead he entered a machine, half a block 
away, riding low on his spine and reading a magazine. 
Under observation, he appeared as a chauffeur idling 
over a magazine while his mistress visited somewhere 
along the row of fashionable apartment houses. But he 
was far from that, for closer observation would have 
revealed that his eyes never left the front door of the 
apartment in which lived the three girls—Jean, Edith 
and Clara. 

At 10 o’clock Clara came out with a suit box under 
her arm. She walked west three blocks and took a down¬ 
town car. Operative No. 2 acting under orders, came 
out of the apartment house a few seconds after she 
left, and stepped into the machine driven by Operative 
No. 3. 

“Which way did she go?” asked No. 2. 

“Turned the corner,” said No. 3. “Making for a 
car.” 

When the street car came along, Clara boarded it 
and took a seat on the outside section, placing the suit 
box on the floor beside her. Half a block behind the 
street car, a machine bowled along, keeping the car 
constantly in sight. In such manner they entered the 
traffic maze of the mid-city area, constantly nearing the 
department store. 

While Operative No. 3 trailed the girl into the 
store, the driver notified me. I immediately jumped 
down to the department store, in time to see Clara 
search out her companion, Jean, and make some sort of 
a protest openly before the other clerks. There was a 
considerable amount of conversation. Finally Jean 
called the floor manager. He came forward and there 
was more talk. 


138 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


I learned afterward that Clara had returned the 
suit with the statement that her husband did not like it, 
and demanded her money back. After some argument, 
the money was refunded through the cashier’s window, 
the clerk, Jean, identifying the suit as one which this same 
woman had purchased the day before for $65. In other 
words, Clara got $65 in cash for a suit which was 
charged to Mrs. George Landis. The thing was sim¬ 
plicity itself. 

Calling my house detective, I took her aside and 
explained the situation. Together we approached Clara, 
and placed both her and Jean Parsons, the clerk, under 
arrest. They protested violently, Clara assuming all 
the airs and mannerisms of a wealthy woman and Jean 
in tears—quickly assumed. Clara declared her husband 
would sue us and presented a most defiant front until 
we had them both locked in the manager’s office. 

Then I told them what they had been doing, from 
beginning to end. Then only did they both break down 
and confess that they had been making about $3,000 a 
month in that manner, through false charge accounts. 
Jean’s part of it was to secure employment as a salesgirl 
and “identify” the woman to whom the clothing was 
charged. Then, after the suit had been exchanged for 
cash and before the regular customer received her state¬ 
ment and discovered that she had been falsely charged 
with a suit, Jean would leave her job and the trail would 
be lost. 

Both girls made a clean breast of their participation. 
But they shielded Edith. They said she was “on the 
square” and that they had picked her up in St. Louis 
because she was out of work, and brought her along with 
them. They denied that she had any hand in their 
operations. We had nothing on her, at that time, so 
we turned the two girls over to the police, as both had 


THE YELLOW SLIP 


139 


prior jail records, and turned our attention to Edith. 

I had just returned to my office when the telephone 
rang. It was from Operative No. 5, on duty in another 
department store, to inform me that Edith had just been 
arrested while shoplifting some valuable furs. She had 
a large hat bag on her arm with a hole in the side. Her 
method was to place the bag over a fur, run her hand 
through the hole and subtract the fur from the stock. 
She was caught with a $40 fur in her hand. 

This brings us to the yellow slips. In the handbag 
of Clara we found a handful of yellow slips, all charge 
tags from various department stores. With this as a 
clue we ran down a wholesale system of looting which 
these three girls had been conducting all over the coun¬ 
try. Much of the property was returned, the girls 
having used it for personal adornment or home furnish¬ 
ing, and with the assistance of the police in various cities 
we were enabled to return it to the stores from which it 
had been taken. 

The girls confessed everything after we found the 
yellow slips, and after a quick trial were ordered sent 
to jail. From last reports they are still in jail. Clara 
came up to me in court, after the case was over. 

“Mr. Harris,” she said, “will you tell me how you 
first got wise to us?” 

Sitting on the district attorney’s table, I told her of 
the girl who attempted suicide in front of my beach 
home, and the links of the chain that followed. Clara 
studied me with somber eyes while I talked. Then she 
sighed. 

“Well,” she said, “ I had an old time crook tell me in 
‘Chi’ once that in the long run the smoothest of them lose 
out. I didn’t believe it. I haven’t believed it all through 
this case. I will tell you frankly that I would have gone 
back to the ‘game’ as soon as I could escape my sentence. 


140 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 



But I’m glad you told me this. Now I KNOW it 
can’t be done! It isn’t the unexpected that you foresee, 
it’s fate that’s all against you. When I get out I’m 
through—forever.” 










































































































































A PAIR OF SHOES 


ll/TY friendship with “Jimmy the Rat” goes back a 
^ ** number of years to a city in the northwest in which 
big crime dramas have been written from raw materials. 
We got the drift from lumber camps there, primitive, 
virile elements that fought and lived hard, and fre¬ 
quently, much too frequently, died hard. 

The detective bureau to which I was attached had 
a hard shift. It was small, considerably smaller than 
adequate to cover the district assigned to it. And it 
had some of the worst characters in the country to 
handle. It was not often that we really had to pit our 
brains against those of a professional crook. 

The crimes ran mostly to murder, killings that grew 
out of brawls, sudden reflexes that were the result of 
anger, drunkenness, or a woman’s preference. There 
would be a shot or a knife thrust, and the killer would 
run. Usually it was child’s play to find him, for, first 
flush of the thing over, he would seek some saloon, drink 
too much, become talkative and awake in the “cooler.” 

But “Jimmy the Rat” was the exception. He was 
our first big “professional.” Jimmy and I have laughed 
over this since, sitting in front of a wood fire in my apart¬ 
ments and “swapping” experiences. But at the time 
Jimmy drifted across our ken, suave, dapper, convincing 
—we were somewhat “hicks” in the matter of crime de¬ 
tection. It has always been a source of considerable 
pride to me and chagrin to Jimmy that it was a fragment 
of old time detective work that netted our first big catch 
—himself. 


142 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


This was particularly disconcerting to Jimmy, be¬ 
cause the professional crook has a supreme contempt 
for the methods of the fiction detective. In a measure 
he is correct in his attitude. Crime detection is not ac¬ 
complished the way most fiction writers map it out. It 
is not done, piece by piece and inch by inch. Detectives 
as a class are not clever analysts, despite the myriad 
plays and stories to the contrary. 

The catching of criminals in nine cases out of ten, 
is the result of something that the criminal himself for¬ 
got to do or overdid. Engaged in an abnormal pastime, 
he acquires an abnormal viewpoint of things. He ex¬ 
aggerates his precautions—places under value on some 
parts of his structure, or underrates some other part. A 
detective faced with the task of catching him, comes 
suddenly upon something unusual. Immediately he 
asks himself: “What was this done for?” and right 
there starts the train of inquiry that ultimately lands his 
man in jail. 

I have often thought that were I going to become 
a great criminal I would study the ordinary. I would 
work within beaten paths. I would live with the regular 
things of life so that in the final conceptions of the crime 
there would be nothing unusual in it. For experience 
has taught me that in the great majority of cases, the 
catching of criminals depends upon this one great truth 
—this one oversight—the permitting of the trail to de¬ 
part from what the world calls usual. 

So with “Jimmy the Rat” a pair of boots—but 
that is going ahead of the story, which really begins with 
a water-front saloon in a murky-pooled, dimly lighted 
section of the city, much frequented by habitues of the 
underworld, where “Jimmy the Rat,” a newcomer to 
the city, “knocked mitts” with “One-Eye” Davis, one 



A PAIR OF SHOES 


143 


of the toughest yeggs and “blanket-stiffs” that ever 
rolled a pal in a box-car. 

It was early in September of a year famous for its 
rains. “Jimmy the Rat,” cold .and blue, but always 
particular as to clothes, wandered into the saloon—lured 
by the promised necromancy of a hot toddy, and electric 
piano, and the chance for casual “pickings.” There in 
the short space of a few minutes he became acquainted 
with “One-Eye.” 

The latter drifted up to the bar while Jimmy was 
buying himself a drink. 

“I’m broke,” he said, succinctly. 

“Same here,” said Jimmy, and then added with the 
good nature which was eternally a part of him, “but I 
guess I can stake you to a smile.” 

The bartender obeyed the cryptic order, and with 
a couple of steaming glasses between them, “Jimmy 
the Rat” and “One-Eye” Davis, whose sobriquet was 
based upon the lack of one optic, formed a working co¬ 
partnership with a rapidity that would make a trust 
magnate open his eyes in wonder. 

“Anything doin’?” asked Jimmy, after a bit. 

“One-Eye” dropped his voice and ran his remaining 
“lamp” over the drunken, brawling aggregation in the 
room. 

“There is a live-wire guy,” he remarked. 

Jimmy counted his surplus cash with the rim of his 
finger nail. Then he led the way to a corner table. 

“Shoot!” he ordered briefly. 

“One-Eye” leaned over the table and spoke in a husky 
wdiisper: 

“Can you open a box?” he asked. 

For the uninitiated let it be understood that a “box” 
is crook nomenclature for a safe. Jimmy considered. 
He had two dollars between himself and starvation. 



144 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


The winter season was coming on. Outside it was cold 
and wet. He was a stranger. It might take him some¬ 
time to find something with money attached, for, while 
he could crack a safe with the best of them, Jimmy’s 
normal trade was picking pockets, and this profession 
in a lumber community did not look promising. 

He stared at “One-Eye” for a moment boring into 
his soul. What he saw there decided him. He would 
take a chance. 

“I might,” he said. “What’s the lay?” 

It seemed that there was a warehouse nearby in 
which a considerable sum of money was carried at times. 
The safe was an old fashioned affair, easy to negotiate, 
with only an aged deaf watchman to guard it. As “One- 
Eye” put it, the job was like “takin’ a watch off a 
dummy.” 

It took “Jimmy the Rat” only the barest fraction of a 
second to make up his mind. Why not? The authori¬ 
ties knew him not. With the money in hand and a good 
suit of clothes which he knew how to wear like a gentle¬ 
man, there would be nothing to it. His new found friend 
said there was as much as $20,000 in it sometimes. 

“When and where?” asked “Jimmy the Rat.” 

“One-Eye” drew a tremulous breath. 

“Good,” he said. “I knew you was a live kid. 
These mutts”—he waved a scornful hand—“these mutts 
ain’t got nerve enough to pull a job like this. I’ve been 
savin’ it for the right bird. You look like the one I’ve 
been waitin’ for.” 

“All right, all right,” said Jimmy. “Cut out the lush. 
Let’s have the layout.” 

At midnight that night the safe of the Northwestern 
Warehouse Company was scientifically and thoroughly 
looted. It proved to be easier than even the optimistic 
“One-Eye” had anticipated. Crouched in the shadows 


A PAIR OF SHOES 


145 



Crowded in the shadows, the two cracksmen watched the night 
patrolman making his rounds. 


of the long, gloomy building, the two cracksmen watched 
the watchman go his rounds, ringing from a time clock at 
the office, thence at four other points throughout the 
building and one at the rear. 

“He goes to lunch at 11 :30,” whispered “One-Eye.” 
“That’s our chance.” 

It was. Hardly had the watchman’s stogy feet 
tramped down the boards of the wharf toward the lights 
of a distant chop-house when “One-Eye” had his 
“jimmy” under the edge of the rear window, snapped 
the catch, and was inside the building, with Jimmy close 
behind him. 

The place was jammed with freight. Bales and boxes 
towered to the ceiling. Underneath, as they stood in 
silence for a moment, they could hear the tide lapping at 




































































146 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


the piles. Up against the rafters, rats scuttled along 
“eeking” to each other. Through the cracks in the floor 
a cold, icy wind whistled and sent a chill up their spines. 

“Come on,” said “One-Eye.” “I know the w r ay.” 

As quietly as possible they worked their way forward 
to the office of the warehouse, where a solitary light 
burned over a desk. Beside the desk was a safe, and 
Jimmy’s heart jumped when he saw it. It was an ancient 
“one-tumbler” affair that a child could have opened with 
a hatchet and little patience. For a man of Jimmy’s ex¬ 
perience it was nothing at all. 

With his ear pressed against the steel door “Jimmy 
the Rat” knelt before the safe and began to twirl the 
combination knob with practiced fingers. Before he 
touched it, however, he took the precaution to tie one fold 
of a handkerchief over the knob with a bit of string, thus 
preventing fingerprints from registering, a proceeding 
that aroused “One-Eye’s” admiration. 

“Say,” he commented, “you’re a wonder . . .” 

“Cut it,” curtly admonished Jimmy. “You keep that 
lamp of yours peeled for trouble.” 

It only took a few dextrous twists of the knob before 
something clicked inside the safe. Removing the hand¬ 
kerchief from the knob, Jimmy w 7 rapped it carefully 
around the handle of the door and pulled. The door 
swung wide, revealing a bundle of gold notes and green¬ 
backs all neatly tied in two packages and labeled. 

“Good gosh!” said “One-Eye,” leaning forward, his 
eyes nearly popping from his head. 

As he did so, a huge figure of a man suddenly bulked 
in the doorway. Jimmy learned afterwards that he was 
the watchman’s son, and that, unknown to “One-Eye,” he 
had been sleeping in the warehouse to watch it during 
his father’s absence. He was still groggy with sleep, 


A PAIR OF SHOES 


147 



The form of a man appeared in the doorway. 

having been awakened by their conversation perhaps, 
and stood blinking and swaying in the opening. 

“Hey,” he said, “what’s the idea?” 

“Jimmy the Rat” jumped to his feet, his one thought 
of escape; “One-Eye,” being all yegg, handled the situa¬ 
tion after his own fashion. There was a short iron bar 
lying on the desk, usually used as a paper weight; with¬ 
out a moment’s hesitation “One-Eye’s” hand shot out. 
The bar flashed for a grim second in the light of the 
drop lamp and crashed down on the giant’s head. With 
a sickening thud he crumpled on the floor, his fingers 
clutching at the boards. 

An exclamation of horror broke from “Jimmy the 
Rat.” He was a crook, a burglar, a pickpocket—all of 
these perhaps—but he was no thug. Fascinated he stood 
staring at the stricken figure before him. He did not 
hear the muttered imprecation of “One-Eye.” He did 



















148 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


not hear him run down the aisle between the freight rows, 
racing toward the rear. He was conscious only of the 
iron bar, crimson-smeared and accusing, and the clutch¬ 
ing fingers— 

The sudden shout of a voice followed by the wicked 
crack of a gun brought him out of his inertia. Directly 
ahead of him was the street door—the main door of the 
warehouse. The watchman had come through that as he 
went out to lunch. Some hidden process of memory 
stood him in good stead now 7 . He recalled, almost clair- 
voyantly, that the watchman had simply come out and 
pulled the door shut. He had not locked it. 

Elis mental processes co-ordinating suddenly, Jimmy 
jumped over the fallen man and tested the door. It gave 
easily. He opened it a trifle and peered out. The street 
seemed empty. He started forward. His heel caught 
and he stumbled and pitched forward onto hands and 
knees. In such manner he scrambled along in the 
shadows until a safe distance away from the door, where 
he stood up and took stock of his position. 

Directly at his elbow was a wharf that paralleled the 
warehouse. Connecting with this were other wharves. 
He ran quickly to the water’s edge. It w r as as he thought 
—an almost endless succession of piers, wharves and 
warehouses stretched before him. He smiled to him¬ 
self. Unless he aroused some other watchman, he was 
safe. Rapidly yet silent as a shadow, he began to hurry 
along this fringe, heading instinctively away from the 
Northwestern’s pier and leaving the open safe and its 
money behind him. 

All the way up town he figured on that shot. Had 
“One-Eye” been shot? Or had he gotten away? He 
sensed instinctively what had happened. Some harbor po¬ 
liceman had noticed the open window at the rear, and 
“One-Eye” hurrying to escape from the warehouse, had 




A PAIR OF SHOES 


149 


plunged directly into his arms. Subsequent events justi¬ 
fied this theory. It was exactly what had happened. 

Jimmy spent the rest of the night in his room, steady¬ 
ing his shaking nerves with a bottle of whisky and call¬ 
ing himself a fool for going into the venture. He had 
always worked alone before. He was crazy to have con¬ 
sidered “One-Eye’s” proposal. What if “One-Eye” 
squealed? The thought set his over strained nerves jump¬ 
ing again. 

Dawn found “Jimmy the Rat” pallid and shaking, 
again on the docks, but this time at the far end of the 
town, where the river boats discharged their valley car¬ 
goes. A freighter, out of her beaten path, was taking a 
load of fruit aboard. An idea had sprung into his brain, 
out of the dark hours of the night and he had decided to 
follow it. The freighter provided the way. He turned 
up the gang plank. 

Two days later “Jimmy the Rat,” his dapperness ex¬ 
changed for the general dinginess of a sailor’s garb, 
walked down the gang plank of the self-same freighter, 
his coat over his arm, and started up town. He was a reg¬ 
istered member of the crew and had made a trip one 
hundred miles inland and return. It had been hard 
labor—harder than Jimmy had done in many a day. 
Every muscle in his body ached, for handling heavy cases 
is not quite a sinecure, and there were blisters on his 
hands, but one thing had been accomplished. He had 
established an alibi. 

Two other members of the crew accompanied him as 
far as the police station. They had business elsewhere 
and had merely walked that far out of sociability. Di¬ 
rectly in front Jimmy parted with them. 

“Well, so long, fellows,” he said. “I’m goin’ in and 
see if I can get a friend out of hock.” 

The others laughed. 


150 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


“Soused again,” said one, and they left him. 

Jimmy walked boldly up to the desk-sergeant’s 
window. There were several of us in the place at the 
time. It was my first meeting with “Jimmy the Rat” and 
I frankly confess that he fooled me—at first. He looked 
so completely the sailor, and besides I had been standing 
at the window and had seen him leave the others. 

“Have you got a guy here named Davis?” he asked. 

“What Davis?” asked the sergeant. “We got a 
couple of Davises.” 

“Bill Davis,” said Jimmy. “I think he calls himself 
‘One-Eye’ or something of that kind.” 

“Oh,” said the sergeant, “you bet we’ve got that bird. 
What do you know about him?” 

“Nothing,” said Jimmy with an assumption of casual¬ 
ness. “Me and him used to sling freight together, that’s 
all. I saw by the papers that he was in a jam, and I 
thought maybe I could get him a mouthpiece or some 
cigarettes or something.” 

A “mouthpiece” is thieves’ argot for a lawyer. It 
was right there that “Jimmy the Rat” slipped. He ad¬ 
mitted it afterward. But he explained it by saying that 
he figured we were so much of a hick community that a 
precaution of that kind was unnecessary. It illustrates 
what I mean by out of the ordinary thing giving the clue. 
The instant he uttered that word my brain began to work. 

“I guess we can let him see ‘One-Eye,’ ” I said. 

The sergeant gave me one look. Then he tumbled. 

“All right, Nick,” he said. “Let him in and I’ll give 
him a pass.” 

I opened the spring lock on the sergeant’s door and 
“Jimmy the Rat” came inside. He was very cool and 
nonchalant about it, throwing his coat over a chair and 
sitting down with all the sangfroid in the world. As he 
crossed one foot over the other my eye was attracted to 


A PAIR OF SHOES 


151 


his boots—a pair of serviceable heavy boots with thin, 
well-worn soles. In that second I knew I had the man 
for whom we had combed the city for two days—the part¬ 
ner of “One-Eye” Davis in the attempted robbery at the 
Northwestern warehouse. 

“What’s your name ?” asked the sergeant as he dipped 
the pen into the ink and held it poised over a pass blank. 

Jimmy was prepared for the question. He answered 
without hesitation. 

“James Grogan,” he said. 

I walked over to him. 

“Jimmy,” I said, “where did you get those boots?” 

He gave me a startled look. Then he glanced down 
at them. 

“The kicks? Why—why I bought ’em off of a guy 
in Portland. Why?” 

I passed his question. 

“How long ago, Jimmy?” I asked. 

He flashed me a suspicious look. 

“About two weeks ago,” he said. 

“Are you sure it wasn’t yesterday, Jimmy?” I asked. 

“Say,” he countered, “what are you stiffs trying to 
do ? Hang something on me ? I got ’em two weeks ago. 
I tell you I was unloading freight up there, and a guy 
came along . . .” 

“Never mind that,” I interrupted him. “All I want 
to know is if you are sure that it wasn’t yesterday or per¬ 
haps today?” 

Jimmy looked at me for a long time. I could see his 
brain working like lightning, trying to get the drift of my 
questions. Finally he gave up and decided to brazen 
it out. 

“No, it wasn’t,” he said. “It was two weeks ago.” 

“Well, Jimmy,” I said, and I dug down in my pocket 
and brought out the heel of a boot—the last layer of 


152 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 



The clue fit perfectly. 


worn leather—that had been there for two days—a heel 
layer that I had picked up in the office of the North¬ 
western's warehouse. “I guess you’ve cinched yourself 
about as tight as it can be done.” 

With the words I stooped down and, with the other 
officers looking on and Jimmy himself paralyzed with sus¬ 
picion, fear and growing terror, fitted the piece I had 
found—the only clue in the case—to the left heel of the 
boot “Jimmy the Rat” wore—the boot I had been watch¬ 
ing since he crossed his feet there in the police station. 
It joined perfectly. 

The hunt for the companion of “One-Eye” Davis 
ended right there. “Jimmy the Rat” threw up both 
hands when he realized how he had been trapped, and 
confessed his part in the affair. By sheer luck the watch- 


























A PAIR OF SHOES 


153 


man’s son had not been seriously hurt and Jimmy “went 
over 1 ’ for burglary only—a short sentence of two years. 

As a deputy sheriff led Jimmy out, on his road to the 
“big house” he stopped long enough to give me one of 
the most sincere compliments I have ever received in my 
professional career. 

“Nick,” he said, “it’s a shame you are a dick. You 
would have made an elegant bank robber. Any guy that 
can pull what you did on me ought to be able to find a 
combination of a safe in the dark.” 


THE MURDER SCOOP 


T HERE is a thrill about a murder that halts the proc¬ 
esses of the human mind and brings them up sharply 
like a checkrein on a restive horse. A detective dotes 
on a murder because there is aroused in him an atomic 
hate of the man who did it. Tuned, instinctively, to the 
vibrations of brotherhood, he jangles when this inner 
instinct is violated. That is why a hue and cry starts so 
suddenly from small beginnings. 

For the newspaper reporter—and I speak advisedly 
here for that was my occupation before I took that of 
“detecting”—the murder mystery presents a chance to pit 
his brains with the best in the business. There is always 
the hope of catching the murderer before the police—of 
“beating the world” to the final details. To the credit of 
the reporter be it said that in a great majority of cases he 
unearths the bulk of the clues which makes such work 
successful. 

The Broadway “murder” was one such—a chance of 
a lifetime, thrown in my way by some twist of fate. It 
was I who found the body, and it was I who unraveled 
the mystery of it all, amid the creeping shadows of the 
night. And yet I am not proud of it nor do I say this 
egotistically. When the case was explained the police 
were quite willing that I should have full credit for the 
“catch.” The way of it was this: 

There were three of us on the night trick, as the news¬ 
paper detail is called which places a man at police head¬ 
quarters during the long, weary watches of the night. It 
had been a “dead night.” Not a wheel had turned. 


THE MURDER SCOOP 


155 


Not a “stick” of copy had materialized. We might just 
as well have been guarding the tomb of King “Tut” for 
all the excitement that abounded. And when midnight 
came, it was with more than relief that I welcomed the 
good-natured face of Policeman Phil Polaski as he thrust 
it through the press-room door. 

“Come on, Nick,” he said. “Let’s be moving.” 

Polaski usually walked home with me. I lived at the 
Hotel Louise and his beat lay down Broadway. Nightly 
we used to take the trip together, chatting about police 
affairs and things of mutual interest. 

It was our custom to try the doors of the various es¬ 
tablishments as we went along. Polaski would take one 
side of the street and I would take the other. When 
either of us found a door unlocked or anything wrong, 
we would call the other. Polaski went down on the left 
side of Broadway and I took the right. 
















































































































































156 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


“Better look sharp, Nick,” he warned as I crossed to 
my side of the thoroughfare. “It’s been pretty dead 
for a couple of nights. It’s about time for something 
to pop.” 

I nodded, thoroughly understanding Polaski’s feel¬ 
ings in this regard. For—and this is a fact well known to 
police and newspapermen—invariably when there has 
been a period completely free from evil, some garish 
crime breaks the deadlock, and usually in an unexpected 
manner. It is as though the human elements had grown 
suddenly weary of decency and had burst their restraints 
with a sudden access of tension. There are various 
names for it, and various phases. The psychologist 
covers them all when he says “reflexes.” 

In this frame of mind, we started for my hotel. The 
night was dark. There had been some power trouble 
and many of the street lamps were off. Policeman 
Polaski called over to me. 

“Good night for a holdup or a murder, Nick,” he 
said. 

“Shut up," I warned. “I want to get to bed without 
breaking my record for loafing." 

There was a tailor shop on the corner of Third street 
and Broadway, where Grauman’s theater now stands— 
a small hole in the wall. I had seen a little fellow cross- 
legged in the window, as I passed, day after day. He 
always seemed busy. Great piles of garments were 
always heaped beside him on one side to be done. On 
the other side was another heap all finished. I often 
found myself wondering if he was condemned by some 
unknown fate to sit there cross-legged forever and cease¬ 
lessly stitch. 

His door loomed just ahead. Carelessly I reached 
out and turned the handle. To my surprise the door 
gave easily inward, displaying a black, yawning chasm 




THE MURDER SCOOP 


157 


—the interior of the little tailor shop. There was a 
saloon right across the street, and I saw Policeman 
Polaski cross the beam and continue on his way. A 
warm, moist, stuffy breath of air whiffed in my face 
from the little shop—an odor compounded of cloth, 
benzine and musty rags. 

I took a step forward, peering into the gloom. It 
was a foolish thing to do as I realize now. For, lurking 
in the shadows, standing outlined in the doorway, I made 
an excellent target for a chance shot. At the moment, 
however, I was conscious only that the door was unlocked 
and that within the little shop there was something prob¬ 
ably wrong. 

There was absolute silence on the streets. Down the 
block Policeman Polaski rattled the doors of a ware¬ 
house—jangling them musically. Raucous laughter from 



i leaned forward and touched the face. 














































































































158 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


a corner saloon cut in. The rest was darkness and the 
moist, fetid smell from the inside of the shop. 

I took another step forward. My foot caught at 
something on the floor. I leaned forward and touched 
it. It was the face of a human being—wet and cold! 

For perhaps a minute I did not move a muscle while 
I felt the cold perspiration start out from every pore. 
Finally I managed to get out a match. The shadows 
danced eerily as it rasped into brilliancy. Holding it high, 
I peered down. 

The man was lying on his back with his mouth wide 
open, his arms sprawled wide on the floor. From the 
whiskers and the general appearance I identified him as 
the little tailor. That, however, came afterward. At 
the moment I was conscious only of the ghastly, awful 
crimson streak across the throat! 

The match died in my nerveless fingers. Madly 
I dashed from the place, shrieking for Policeman Polaski. 
He came running down the far side of the street, jerking 
at his revolver. 

“What is it, Nick?” he panted, running up. 

I told him as best I could, pointing to the little shack. 
The thing had been a terrible shock to me. He peered 
at the place darkly, his head cocked on one side, listening. 
But he did not grow excited. Instead, he grew thought¬ 
ful. 

“Hum,” he said. “You get headquarters and tell 
them to bring the coroner.” 

I began to get myself together by that time. I looked 
at my watch. It was just 12:30. I had until 1 a. m. to 
make the “deadline,” or closing hour of my paper. Fur¬ 
thermore, I had left two of my rivals on duty at the 
central station, Dishman of the Times, and Oakley of 
the Herald. If I telephoned police headquarters, they 


THE MURDER SCOOP 


159 


would get it within a few minutes. If on the other hand, 
there was some way of working the matter so that Dish- 
man and Oakley would not find it out, my paper would 
get a “scoop.” 

“Wait a minute, Phil,” I said to Polaski, and ex¬ 
plained my dilemma. He nodded. 

“Tell you what,” he said. “There are a couple of 
boys from the dicks’ bureau down at Hanlon’s saloon. 
They are on their way home. Get them on the telephone 
there.” Leaving Polaski guarding the place where 
the little tailor lay on his back on the floor, I ran across 
the street to the saloon whose lights left a yellow streak 
across the pavement. The telephone was on the end of 
the bar. The bartender gave me a curious look as I 
slid a couple of nickels across the bar and called a num¬ 
ber. Then he shrugged and went back to his duties. 

My first call was to my city editor. In a few words I 
“flashed” him what had happened. 

“Hold the last edition,” I said. “I’ll clean up on the 
facts and phone them in. The two dicks won’t report 
to headquarters until tomorrow. We’ll get clean away 
with a scoop.” 

“Bully for you, Harris,” said the city editor enthu¬ 
siastically. “We’ll hold the press.” 

Then I called Hanlon’s saloon. In two minutes more 
I had told them what I had found in the shack. 

“We’ll grab a cab and come right down,” snapped 
Detective Joe Ritch. 

I hung up the telephone and smiled to myself. Here 
was a first-class murder, all made to order, with murder 
and blood and all the sensational elements, and two de¬ 
tectives were on their way, and yet police headquarters 
and my rivals knew nothing about it. Nor would they 
until they saw it in print in my sheet. I fairly chuckled 


160 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


as I crossed the street to where Policeman Polaski paced 
the sidewalk in front of the little tailor shop. 

“They’ll be here in a minute,” I said. “Did you 
look inside?” 

“I did not,” said Polaski. “If anybody comes out, 
I’ll grab ’em, but no pawing around inside for me. Be¬ 
sides, it’s a dick’s job, anyhow. Let the upper office work 
on it.” 

It was a matter of five minutes only when a big ma¬ 
chine whirled up to the curb and Detectives Ritch and 
Hugh Dixon stepped out. Policeman Polaski nodded a 
greeting. 

“I guess they got the little old Jew, all right,” he 
said. “He’s on his back with his throat cut!” 

Detective Ritch pulled out a flashlight—a police 
torch—and gun in hand shoved forward and into the 
little shop. The rest of us crowded in behind him. At 
the sound of our feet on the floor, the prone figure on 
floor raised its head and stared at us with a puzzled ex¬ 
pression. 

“Shay,” it said, “whash matter, ’nyhow? Whash 
doin’? How’d you get in?” 

It was my little tailor, drunk as a lord, full in the 
grip of a private celebration. 

“But the blood .... his throat?” 

Detective Dixon leaned up against the door. His 
eyes went shut, and while I stared at him in amazement 
he began to laugh. He laughed hilariously, uproariously 
—laughed until all the bums in the world began to pour 
out of the saloon across the street to see what was wrong. 

“Oh, mamma!” he laughed, the tears rolling down 
his cheeks. “His throat—Oh, my gosh!” 

I leaned forward and peered under the drunken 
tailor’s chin. He had on a bright red necktie! 

Right there my big “scoop” ended—blew up, dis- 


THE MURDER SCOOP 


161 


sipated in smoke. I turned away ashamed. I had been 
fooled by a drunken tailor with a red necktie. My pride 
was hurt. Sadly and silently I turned away and went 
on home—down to my room in the hotel Louise, with 
the sound of Detective Dixon’s laugh ringing in my ears. 

I had pulled a “bloomer,” as it is expressed in po¬ 
litical circles. 

In utter humiliation I crawled into bed and pulled 
the covers over my head. I didn’t want even the paper 
on the wall to see my face. I wanted to forget I was 
alive. 

A violent pounding on my door and the sound of a 
voice—I sat up in bed abruptly. The light from a street 
arc shone into the room and by it I read my watch face. 
Three o’clock! What in the name of—? 

“Nick—Nick—open up quick!” 

It was a voice I knew. I sprang out of bed, and run- 



“Where’s that murder story?” 



































































































































































































162 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


ning to the door flung it back. There, hatless and coat¬ 
less, was my city editor. On his face was an expression 
of worry. 

“Nick,” he shouted, catching me by the arm, “for 
God’s sake, what’s happened? Where’s that murder 
story? We are holding the press. I didn’t dare phone 
the central station. What are you doing in bed?” 

Shades of Horace Greeley! Oh, sainted shades of 
Horace Greeley! I had forgotten, I had forgotten—to 
telephone my editor to restart the presses. 


THE DEATH OF DESDEMONA 


T TAVE you ever been thrilled by the desire to seek 
lost treasure hidden in the hulk of some sunken 
ship? Have you sat spellbound, reading Jack London’s 
works, breathlessly tense over a desire to visit the South 
Seas, thrilled as you were informed how the great 
Chinese wall was constructed? 

Then you can get some idea of my feelings when I 
sat and listened to a slip of a girl tell me of her life’s 
experience after I had arrested her for passing worth¬ 
less checks on big merchants of Los Angeles. 

I often have wondered what these same merchants 
would have instructed me to do in her case, had they 
only known her story. I have been accused of being 
too lenient with some of these offenders. They said I 
showed them too much consideration. The courts also 
were lax. Probation was rampant. “Prosecute more, 
and probate less,” such was the cry. 

No one understands better than I the need of strict 
law enforcement of bad check writers. No one knows 
better than I how our merchants are made victims of this 
class of criminals. Yet, let me tell the story of this girl 
and see if you would have caused her confinement behind 
the gray walls of San Quentin. 

I was called to the office of one of our department 
store cashiers one Friday afternoon to pick up a check 
just returned from the bank marked “No account.” 
Upon my arrival the chief clerk said, “Harris, when in 
the name of common sense are you ever going to stop 
this girl ‘hanging paper’? This makes the fifth check 


164 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


we have had this month.” I looked at the writing and 
saw it was the same as those cashed at other stores for 
the past eight weeks. All for amounts of less than $25, 
just enough to be annoying, yet they would aggregate 
a total of several hundred dollars. 

“Why blame me?” I answered. “We have warned 
you against her and her style of working three times al¬ 
ready, yet in she walks and your clerks hand her out the 
cash without a question. If she would ask for a charge 
account, you would ship her up to your credit section, and 
get her history from the cradle before you gave her five 
cents’ worth of merchandise, but when she asks for cash, 
on which you lose 100 per cent, she just flits in, counts 
the shekels and out she goes.” 

I made up my mind that, if it was within our power, 
we would bring her in. In less than a week this beauty 
had fallen into the trap we set. I arrested her in Bul¬ 
lock’s. Miss Eunice Alexander, one of my girl agents 
in the J. W. Robinson store, had picked her up on descrip¬ 
tion and followed her to Bullock’s. She telephoned me 
that she thought she had the right girl. I answered the 
call and met Miss Alexander. We trailed her around 
the store to make sure she was our party and hoped she 
would try to pass another check. On the third floor she 
looked over the suits and there tendered a check for $65. 
I tipped the clerk to introduce me as the “o.k.” man and 
said I would talk to her, thus getting an opportunity to 
see the handwriting. 

One look was enough. It was our much wanted 
maid. The name, of course, was different, as usual. In 
our w r ork this item meant nothing, as we go by certain 
characteristics of handwriting and style of checks, and 
various other methods which prompts us to regard the 
names of Maggie Jones or Bertha Adams as one and 
the same. 


THE DEATH OF DESDEMONA 


165 


As I placed her under arrest, she said, “I beg your 
pardon, sir, but I think you have made a mistake. I 
am Margaret Van Alystine, daughter of Charles H. Van 
Alystine, president of the Traders Bank and Trust Com¬ 
pany of Atlanta, Ga.” 

“I dare say, madam,” I answered, “but yesterday 
you were Harriet Kathern Clement of St. Augustine, 
Fla., and you will have to come to headquarters.” 

She smiled and said, “Your pleasure, sir.” 

Refinement seemed to radiate from her. Her soft 
voice and pleasant manner almost made us hesitate. 
Were we right? Had we not confused her with the 
real offender? Could there be a strange coincidence that 
handwritings were the same? I called the bank to make 
sure. I was right. It was Harriet, and Gertrude, and 
Francis, and Lucile of the past eight weeks. 

On the way to jail she asked Miss Alexander what 
we were going to do with her. 

“Better ask Mr. Harris,” said Miss Alexander. I 
told her I would have to put her away for a long time. I 
asked her where she lived, and she led the way to her 
apartment on South Figueroa street, where we searched 
her room and found practically all the merchandise she 
had obtained in her weeks of check writing. On her 
dresser I saw the picture of a very handsome man, per¬ 
haps past fifty. I asked, “Who is that?” “That’s my 
father,” she said. “Whose picture is this other one on 
the other side of your dresser?” “Please don’t ask that 
now, sir.” I picked up the picture and saw scrawled in 
black ink these words: 

“To my Desdemona—I will be waiting for you in the 
land beyond. 

“Franklyn” 

The picture had been made in a New York studio. 
I saw big tears well in her eyes, run down her cheeks 


166 WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 

and drop on her silken dress, as she bowed her head in 
shame. 

In her trunk I found clippings from the Chicago 
Tribune, telling of the death of a young New York 
millionaire. It was a suicide pact. A girl and he had 
agreed to die together on the sands in front of the Chi¬ 
cago Beach hotel, in the Hyde Park section. They had 
quarreled. He had married another; he repented and 
came back to her, and they agreed to die together. He 
pointed the pistol point blank at her temple. He fired 
as she bowed her head, and missed. A second shot, and 
his prostrate form fell across her lap. This was in July, 
1917. She was afraid to finish the work he failed to 
accomplish. 

Since that night she had wandered from her home 
and friends, a derelict on the sea of life. She said 
Franklyn had written that farewell message on the pic¬ 
ture just a few hours before the end. She hoped she 
would die, now that she had brought disgrace upon her 
name, but she didn’t want to die in jail. If we would 
only let her go to some beautiful park and there end it 
all! It was really the pleading of one sincere. 

I posted Miss Alexander to watch her, thinking she 
might attempt suicide while we were searching the room. 
Miss Alexander tried to console her, as only one girl can 
do for another. It seemed to have its effect, and we left 
for the city jail. I felt this was a case for the psycho¬ 
pathic ward, instead of prison, and had her taken to the 
hospital. 

She would not tell us who her father was, other than 
to say her name was Davis. After several months she 
was pronounced cured and released from the hospital. 
She was not prosecuted because of the checks. No one 
would swear to the complaint. 

Over a year passed before I saw her again. I often 


THE DEATH OF DESDEMONA 


167 


had wondered what had become of her, when one day 
my telephone rang, and a landlady in a cheap rooming 
house called and said a girl wanted to see me before she 
died. Accompanied by one of my agents, I hurried to 
the place, and there found Desdemona propped up in bed 
and looking very healthy. 

“Well, girl, what’s the matter? You don’t look like 
you were sick,” I asked. 

“No, Mr. Harris,” she replied, “I am quite well in 
body, but very ill in mind. I am going to die, and be¬ 
fore I go I want to tell you just who I am and ask you 
to see that I receive proper burial. 

“Now, Mr. Harris, I am going to briefly tell you 
my story. My father and mother were Presbyterian 
missionaries, stationed in China. There were just two 
children, my brother and I. We were born in China, 
just a few miles out of Canton. During the Boxer up¬ 
rising both my parents were killed. We were carried 
into the camps of the Boxers and delivered to the high 
official. There was just a year’s difference in the ages 
of my brother and myself. He was the older. I was 6 
and he was 7. We were taken into the back country 
and put with some coolie family. They were like our 
guards. We were always watched. Once or twice a 
month the master would come and see us. He was 
always kind and good and one day he told us in rich 
English that we should not fear. He would be our ‘papa’ 
now. He kept us seven years. As we grew older he 
told us that he was a prince, that he had been sent to 
America to school, and that some day we could all go 
back. He later became identified with some shipping 
interests and used to take us on long trips into southern 
waters. He always told my brother that he was very 
wealthy and that when he died he would leave us great 
riches. He also warned us never to speak of the war his 


168 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


country had, meaning the Boxer uprising, but to say that 
our father left us with him. 

“We really learned to love him. We had never 
known anything but the Chinese, and quite naturally we 
now regarded him as our father. He had us educated 
by a private tutor, and brother and I were inseparable. 
One day word came to our home that our Chinese 
‘father' had been drowned. His ship had run into 
rocks off the eastern coast of the Philippines, and all on 
board were lost. 

“My brother and I, of course, inherited his estate, 
amounting to several thousands of dollars. We lived 
in China for several years. Finally brother wanted to 
come to America. We came. In New York he met a 
girl whom he later married. Of course I was all broken 
up, because I had never known anyone but him. He was 
my protector. I looked up to him as my guiding spirit. 
When he married I couldn’t stand it. I went to Chicago. 
Soon brother missed me. Trouble came in his family. 
He left his wife and tried to find me. At last he found 
trace of me and came on to Chicago. He was a broken 
man. Life meant nothing for him. His fortune he left 
with his wife. 

“Now, Mr. Harris, you have heard my story. You 
read the newspaper clippings telling of my death pact 
with a wealthy New Yorker. You saw the picture on 
my dresser. You read the writing on it. You remember 
it said, ‘I will be waiting for you in the land beyond,’ and 
was signed Franklyn. Mr. Harris, Franklyn was my 
brother and not my sweetheart. I have kept this secret 
all these years, hut now that I am going to die, I wanted 
you to know the truth. My story is ended.” 

With this final statement the girl closed her eyes as 
though she was swooning. We could not revive her, 
and again sent her to the hospital. She recovered, and 


THE DEATH OF DESDEMONA 


169 


I later saw her in the elevator of the Pantages building, 
when she told me she was working as a stenographer, 
and that life held new hopes for her. But she hoped, 
she said, the end would come soon. 

Barely a week from that day the lifeless form of a 
beautiful brunette was found floating in the tide waves 
near the shore at Long Beach, Cal. The body was iden¬ 
tified as that of Desdemona Davis. 

One newspaper story said that “her soul was dead.’' 
She had written a tearful note to Mrs. H. B. Winter, 
superintendent of the Minnie Barton Hall. Such was 
the life story, as I knew it, and the death of Desdemona. 


“A MASS OF GOLDEN HAIR” 


P ERHAPS there is no subject, more appropriate this 
time that I could write about than to tell the story 
connected with the case of one of the most notorious 
dope fiends this country ever had within its domain; 
just at this time when our government, both city and 
state and nation, are spending millions in trying to stamp 
out this deadly drug evil. 

Headlines of our daily press call the attention day 
after day in glaring letters of how some notable has 
fallen victim of the shining needle, or the molasses 
colored essence of the once beautiful poppy blossom. 
Could all of us, while in our right mind, see the suffering 
and misery of these fallen wretches, we would bend 
every effort within our power to get behind the move¬ 
ments of civic and social bodies interested in stamping 
the heel of disapproval on the face of this dastardly 
habit, created sometimes as a result of trying to ease 
the pain in time of sickness and other times as a result 
of some strange whim, causing one to try the opium pipe 
just once to realize the oft-told tales of wonderful 
dreams said to encourage our weary minds when all else 
has failed. 

My tale starts years ago when I was doing special 
writing on one of the metropolitan papers and which 
goes to show this same present day war on dope sellers 
was not overlooked even at that time. 

I had just turned to my city editor a story of the 
death of a beautiful young girl, whose body was found 
in a cheap lodging house on Wall street. I picked this 


“A MASS OF GOLDEN HAIR” 


171 


case off the records at the receiving hospital. The doc¬ 
tors said, “Overdose of morphine.” Such was the ending 
of this child when my editor apparently touched by the 
circumstances surrounding the girl’s death, turned to 
me and said: “Nick, I want a story on local dope con¬ 
ditions. I want you to go for a week if necessary and 
mingle with some known dope fiends and find out who is 
supplying these creatures with this stuff, or from what 
source it is coming into Los Angeles and by the heavens 
above, if this paper can’t blow them up, they will at least 
know we are going after them.” 

The way he seemed to grit his teeth and slam his 
fist on the table, inspired me with a desire to lend my 
bit, to get the real “low down” as we call it in news¬ 
paper slang and it implanted in my very soul a spirit of 
hate against these sellers which to these days has never 
abated. 

Having for some time past been detailed at Central 
station on the police beat working with Edward Dishman 
of the Times and Frank Oakley of the Herald, which 
by the way was then a morning paper and Los Angeles 
had not yet seen the advent of the Examiner, I had oc¬ 
casion many times to run into some of the well known 
dope users and just about knew where most of them 
hung out. 

However, one of my guiding spirits and advisers in 
those days was Detective Sergt. Charles Moffitt and who 
in the present day police circles is still actively connected 
with the department, having filled the positions of lieu¬ 
tenant and acting captain of the bureau. He was also 
a writer of California and nature stories of no mean 
ability, dealing with many subjects that would be of 
great value to me on my recent detail. 

“Mr. Moffitt, will you give me just a pointer or two 
on where I can get the best start in digging up this 


172 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


story?” I asked. “You know some of the mob but I 
thought you could tell me better how to mix with them 
or where to begin.” 

“My boy,” he said, “listen,” as he stopped writing 
some reports and leaned back in the swivel chair. “Do 
you realize what you are trying to get into? It is the 
most dangerous and difficult problem this department 
has to deal with. I say it is dangerous and I mean both 
in a police way and from your own health standpoint. 

“You say your editor wants you to live the life. No! 
No! He didn’t mean that for he could not expect such a 
sacrifice. But if you will promise me that you will not 
even so much as touch an opium pipe to your lips or let 
a hypodermic needle touch your flesh, I will tell you 
where you can get some wonderful copy for your paper.” 

Almost on bended knees I promised, so great was 
the warning he had pictured to me. “Then, Harris, with 
that assurance, I will tell you to go to (for the purpose 
of the story, we will call it Sullivan's saloon on North 
Alameda street) not far from Shault and try and get a 
job as porter or glass washer behind the bar. Watch 
the gang that hangs around the back room for, at times, 
we have suspected this as a dope center. However, it 
seems that all of our men, perhaps because they look too 
much like policemen, have never been able to get on the 
inside. But remember your promise.” 

“I shall, Mr. Moffitt,” I answered and shook his 
hand warmly to bind the bargain. 

Next morning I told my landlady that I would be 
gone for perhaps a week. I dug up my last year’s suit, 
my oldest shoes and last summer’s straw hat. I did 
not shave that morning and went out in the backyard and 
smeared my face with dirt. I even left my glasses on 


“A MASS OF GOLDEN HAIR” 


173 


the dresser and my disguise was perfect. Now for 
Sullivan’s saloon. 

To all the world, fifteen cents was my financial stand¬ 
ing, and as I opened the swinging doors leading to the sa¬ 
loon, I sauntered up to the bar and dropped a nickel on 
the mahogany top. Without asking, a mug of beer was 
shoved across to me. Sipping a couple of swallows, I 
looked for the free lunch, munched on some pretzels, 
head cheese and pickles until I could get the lay of the 
land, so to speak. Another round of beer and a round 
of food offerings until the bartender asked me “if I 
hadn’t had breakfast.” Fate was kind to me for it 
gave me an unexpected opening; a chance to spring my 
story on the boss himself. 

“Mister,” I said, “that’s the first thing I have eaten 
today.” “Well, why didn’t you buy coffee and sinkers?” 
he unexpectedly shot back at me. I was knocked for a 
goal right off the bat—and coming from a saloon-keeper. 
He diverting cash from his own coffers. I rallied and 
said, “You know you can get but three sinkers and a cup 
of coffee for a dime and that’s all I got and I knew I 
could eat my head off here if you were busy.” This 
wise crack seemed to please Sullivan and he tossed a 
quarter over the bar and said, “Kid, go get your break¬ 
fast.” 

Oh, what a white aproned angel he was. If he could 
only have been selling shoes or talcum powder or gro¬ 
ceries instead of liquor, I could have landed him on the 
front page of my paper, as a philanthropic citizen, but as 
it was I just had to pick up the quarter and tell him a long 
sad story of my being out of a job and wanting work. 
Again fate was good to me. 

“What kind of a job do you want?” he asked. 
“What can you do?” I said: “Once I jerked soda back 
in Joplin, Mo., and used to sweep the floors,” and if he 


174 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


would give me a job, I felt sure I could help him with 
the trade. “Kid,” he said, “this is no job for a youngster. 
Go up town and work in a dry goods store.” “I have 
tried all this week,” I answered, “but no luck”; and I 
guess I touched his heart for he told me to hang up my 
hat and sweep the joint and the sidewalk. 

Readers, may I not say right here, that during the 
next few days I had a chance to study this chap and I 
never met a more kind and better hearted fellow in the 
world. If the doing away of saloons caused nothing bet¬ 
ter, it at least sent this specimen of fine manhood into 
better vocations and today this man is one of the most 
loved and respected hotel keepers in Los Angeles. 

It wasn’t but a few days before I was well acquainted 
with the regular customers and had my dope well sized 
up. I had noticed on several occasions a rather stately, 
high-class man of about sixty years of age come into the 
rear room. He was a physical wreck; his eyes were 
gaunt; his cheeks were sunken, and the unmistakable 
twitching was forever playing across his once fine fea¬ 
tures. His gray hair was unkempt; yet with all this one 
could detect the indelible marks of refinement beneath 
the drug-wrecked surface. 

I asked Sullivan who this man was and he replied 
that they just called him “the Mystery Man” around 
there. “I don’t even know his name, and he has been 
coming here for the past three years. He meets the 
doctor, gets his medicine, sits around for awhile and 
then goes out. That’s all we know about him.” 

The doctor! I wondered—did he have his headquar¬ 
ters here and was he feeding the dopes in the little back 
room? Then I thought Sullivan, the fellow who had be¬ 
friended me must be in on the deal, too, for he was the 
owner. Would he not fall in the crash when I broke 
the story? That was the one thing that affected me, for, 


“A MASS OF GOLDEN HAIR” 


175 


after his sincere kindness, I must break him, too. He had 
been like a father to me and I decided to ask him what 
his connection was. He would not suspect me. 

‘‘Mr. Sullivan, tell me, why does this doctor meet 
the snowbirds here?” I ventured this while I was polish¬ 
ing some glasses and he was sorting the cash. He half 
turned around and answered. I fancied I could see a 
trace of sorrow across his chubby face, “Pretzel,” he 
said (that’s the nickname he gave me), “I would like 
to see that bird landed in Leavenworth (federal prison) 
but my hands are tied and the cops at headquarters have 
been trying to land him for years. He has been supply¬ 
ing these people and stands big with certain politicians 
so that if I dared to squeal on him, he is just that power¬ 
ful that he could frame on me and I would lose my 
license.” 

This was sure juicy pickings for me. Cocaine and 
morphine was this doctor’s stock in trade. For the 
sake of his descendants I will call him Russell. That 
night I conferred with Moffitt and Capt. A. J. Bradish 
in charge of police detectives, and it was decided that a 
raid would be made and that Sullivan would be kept in 
the dark. 

Sullivan’s saloon was located in the heart of the 
tenderloin district just far enough from Main street so 
one could hear the clanging of the street car bells and 
near enough from Chinatown to receive the rank odors 
from these sections. The stage was all set and it was a 
real coup d’etat. The drizzle of a belated California 
rain sparkled around the arc lights like dancing diamond 
dust. The blue curling cigar smoke was circling to the 
ceiling, filling the eyes of four detectives watching 
through little holes which had been bored that after¬ 


noon. 


176 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


Seated in this back room around a rough board 
table were at least seven victims and peddlers of this 
dreaded stuff, waiting for Doc. Russell to bring them 
their usual supply. Among the gathered group was my 
Mystery Man—the man of yesterday, the shadow of to¬ 
day. His silence seemed to cast a gloom over the party, 
when one of the younger peddlers turned to this derelict 
and said: “Dad, old top, brace up. As soon as Doc. 
comes you’ll feel like a million.” The old man slowly 
turned to the speaker, and in a trembling voice and 
looking with eyes that awaited the luster of a new 
“shot” answered: “My boy, I am very sad. I guess I 
am getting tired and there is nothing much left for me. 
I don’t think I will wait for Doc. I’d better be going.” 

Never on any stage were any lines more dramatically 
spoken. He started to rise from his chair when one of 
the curious of the crowd placed his arm around the old 
man’s shoulder and abruptly asked why he felt so sad. 
“Tell us, dad—tell us the story of how you happened to 
go this route.” 

A new life seemed to take hold of this old soul. A 
new fire seemed to burn in his deep-set eyes when he 
said, “I will, my friends, and may it do you youngsters 
some good.” And this is what he told them: 

“I am going to tell you the history of my life. I 
will tell it as the poets of old would. I will give it as this 
life has unfolded it to me. I will call it: 

“ ‘A MASS OF GOLDEN HAIR’ 

"You ask me now to tell you of my life in happy dreams. 

You want to know, I guess, just how this old world seems 
To one who's used the needle and smoked the fragrant iveed, 
That sprouts out yellow blossoms which supply the hophead’s 

needs. 


“A MASS OF GOLDEN HAIR” 


177 


So let me tell my story in my simple little way, 

That you may understand it and know the price we pay. 

Til start from the beginning and lift the hazy veil 
And tell it as I learned it and utter not a wail. 

“1 was born away from trouble, in a little country town. 

I went to church and school, the latter painted brown. 

I met the sweetest little girl, just like all others do. 

I little thought, in after years, this tale could e’re come true. 
Her golden curls had won me, from the time I saw her first. 

I swore then I would love her and protect her from the worst. 

1, like other felloivs, had played the childish pranks 

That sometimes have bad endings and annoy the village cranks. 


“ ’Twas one of these that started me alo?ig this fatal path. 
You see my father caught me and whipped me with a lath. 
Now that should be a lesson to a lad in tender years, 
Instead of causing misery and mothers many tears. 

But I just ran away from home and to a city came. 

I found out all there was to learn in this most rotten game. 
I soon was broke and hungry and not a friend I knew, 

So started out to get a job, a career 1 had to hew. 


r T landed as a messenger in an office in the slums. 

I soon became acquainted with all the crooks and bums. 

I little thought what this would mean to me, yet but a kid. 

To live in this wide-open town that never had a lid. 

I worked at nights in bright lights gay, among these fallen crea¬ 
tures 

Who knew the life as no one else, and all its awful features. 

1 saw the life I cant describe and to you I can tell 

All the things that happened then and sent most all to Hell. 


“I soon became a fixture there and thought that I was smart. 

I knew the Dago on the street, who ran the peanut cart. 

I knew the girls in flimsy dress who called me ‘Little Joef 
They used to kid me every night and said I was their ‘beau.’ 

They gave me ties at Christmas time and sometimes bought me 
shoes, 

When I would run their errands or bring to them their booze. 


178 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


“Oh, yes, and I remember the Salvation Army Lass 
Who used to Sell the War Cry, which fought the fatal glass. 

She traveled through these sin-filled streets and seemed to know no 
fear. 

Yet through these crowds she wandered and tried to bring good 
cheer. 

Would that I had listened to the words she had to say, 

I now would be a better man instead of broken clay. 

“The almond eyes of Chinatown would hold me in their grasp, 
Until one fatal night in June I sure was in their clasp. 

I rolled a pill—’twas just in fun, to see what it would do, 

I burned it o’er the little flame as they had told me to. 

I puffed upon the dirty pipe until I was asleep, 

1 dreamed of sunken gardens, yes, they seemed a full mile deep. 
A thousand diamonds glistened here, like dew upon the grass, 

1 saw my village sweetheart, with her golden hair amass. 

“I called to her in ecstasy to look, that I was here, 

She turned and smiled and told me I was just her dear. 

She said that wed get married and have a little home 
In this garden spot of ages and have it all our own. 

Then an angel from the Heavens flew down close by our side. 

She joined our hands in marriage and with happiness she cried: 
‘Go forth, my gentle children, to this land that knows no tears, 
And live the life you’ve longed for until old age creeps in years.* 

“Just then my dream was ended, I was startled by a scream, 

A crashing door, a bluecoat, a familiar form, was seen. 

J Twas Lee, the Chink, who ran the joint, he sprawled upon the 
floor. 

The copper s fist had leveled him when he crashed against the 
door. 

The harness bull was standing and looking all around, 

He called to Lee to tell him if the girl was under ground. 

I saw him draw his pistol as the Chink reached for his knife, 

I saw Lee get upon his knees and beg to spare his life. 

“He led the way to a darkened room and told him she was there, 
And when they brought her past me, I saw the golden hair. 

I made one jump and landed away out from my bunk, 

I reeled and tried to hold my feet, but it seemed that I was drunk; 


“A MASS OF GOLDEN HAIR” 179 

Yet my head was clear and I seemed to know that I had left my 
bed, 

I called to them to stop and wait and tell me, was she dead. 
They went right on and let me stand and didn't seem to care 
That I had knoivn that little girl with the mass of golden hair. 


“You see, I used to write to her and she knew what I 7neant when 
I told her how I loved her and what a life I spent. 

Next day I learned the awful truth of what had come to pass, 

Of how my village sweetheart had waited till the last. 

Of how she wandered into town to find me if she could, 

And help me lead a better life and bring out all the good. 


“And when she couldn't find me I guess she lost her way. 

They said she hit the dope route and, like others, had to pay. 
They buried her away up state, in that little country town 
Where childhood days were happy and the school was painted 
brown. 


“You asked me now why I don't stop and lay off of the stuff, 

For I should know my life is dead and I am just a bluff. 

Why, man alive, I only live to go back to my den 
And hit the pipe and dream of her and dream of what might 
have been. 

Why, man, I long to see again that garden of the gods 
I told you of a while ago that had the diamond pods. 

Where the angel came and joined our hands and where my love 
was born. 

Yes, man, that's where I want to stay till Gabriel blows his horn. 


“Or would that God would take me now, and tear me from this 
weed 

That's caused such Hell and sorrow and bears its filthy seed, 
That 1 may make amends to Him and pray Him to forgive my sins 
Of other days, and a new life let me live. 

So don't feel hard if I must leave and have to say good-bye. 
Because I want just one more dream like that before I die. 

For my little pal still waits for me, I think I see her there, 

Away up with the angels with that mass of golden hair." 


180 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


And when he finished a smile was on his face, his 
form crumpled in the chair and fell over on the table. 
It was a sermon I’d never heard before. The doctor 
came. No, not Russell, but another, who said he was 
dead. The gang singled out; their eyes were damp. 
Yes, just as damp as the windows outside and the side¬ 
walks. And so were mine and those of the coppers up¬ 
stairs. The raid wasn’t made that night but a lesson 
was taught. I hope that God forgave him. I hope he 
will see her there—away up there with those angels with 
her mass of golden hair. 


JUST A LITTLE DOG 

pERHAPS you have read of animal stories featuring 
^ the faithfulness of dogs. Perchance you saw the 
recent motion picture, “The Silent Call,” in which that 
dumb animal featured there seemed to do everything 
but speak, and after you left the theatre you wondered 
perhaps if, after all, it was only fiction. 

This tale is going to deal with just a common little 
woolly dog and its connection with one of the most das¬ 
tardly murders in the police annals of Los Angeles. 

This story is culled from certain facts uncovered by 
an investigation resulting in the man hunt for the sup¬ 
posed murderers, and how this little cur dog played a 
most prominent part in causing the arrest of this fiend in 
human flesh, and how this little dog spent its life and won 
the love and hatred of these selfsame guardians of the 
law who had charge of this murder mystery investiga¬ 
tion. 

Perhaps this story will call to mind your early boy¬ 
hood days when you, yourself, had picked up some stray 
pup, and how you had cared for and cherished it as 
though it was part of your very life. So let me tell the 
facts as I, myself, saw them while detailed as a police 
reporter on the Daily Journal many years ago. 

I was seated in the private office of Captain A. J. 
Bradish, who was then in charge of the detective bureau 
in Los Angeles, when he received a phone call from* a pa¬ 
trolman on the North Alameda street beat who stated 
that a murder had been committed and to send some de¬ 
tectives down to look it over. The officer said it looked 


182 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 

like a “Cholo” job, as the dead body was covered with 
stab wounds. Bradish called Detective Sergeant Manuel 
B. Leon, one of Los Angeles’ Spanish speaking officers 
and detailed him to take up the case and report his find¬ 
ings. Leon seeing me sitting with Bradish said: “Come 
on, kid, there may be a good story for you here.” I 
looked at Bradish. Lie nodded his approval and off 
we started. In those days autos had not yet become 
famous, so we jumped into a slow horse driven patrol 
wagon and bounded over the cobbled streets. 

Now, let me say just a word about Leon. He was 
born in Tucson, Ariz., of Spanish parentage, and from 
childhood had sort of a cr ving to be a police officer. 
His father died when he was ten years old and he was 
left to help his mother raise the family. Knocking 
around these western states and mixing with the police 
and gun men of those stirring early days he had developed 
into one of the shrewdest natural born detectives in the 
great southwest. 

I always seemed to feel, while in his presence, that 
this fellow knew the tricks of the Mexican criminal ele¬ 
ment better than anyone else on the detective detail, and 
I knew if this was a Mexican job I would sure get some 
big copy for^the morning paper that I represented. 

We found upon arrival a crowd gathered in front of 
a little blue front shanty in which for years Anthony 
Brogg had conducted a little sausage shop. Reports had 
often been circulated that Brogg was a miser and kept 
hordes of money hidden about his place. When we en¬ 
tered the shack we found poor old Brogg stretched out 
on the floor amidst scattered counters and shelving, clutch¬ 
ing in his hand the bladed end of a Spanish dagger. His 
fingers were almost severed where he had grasped the 
wicked instrument which evidently had been used by his 


JUST A LITTLE DOG 


183 



Clutched in his hand was the bladed end of a dagger! 


murderers in snuffing out his life and which he had 
wrested from them in his last fighting strength. 

It was here the generalship of Bradish had shown 
itself because he had picked Leon for the job. Now, any 
other ordinary Yankee copper would have had to work at 
a disadvantage to unravel a Mexican murder job, but 
with Leon it was second nature. His eyes sparkled as he 
looked at me and bent back the already stiffened fingers 
of Brogg and pried the dagger from their clutches. 

“Nick,” he said, “ ‘Cholo,’ it looks like the forgot¬ 
ten clue.’ ” 

Those days finger printing had not yet come into its 
own, so he had to depend upon the science of the time 
and dig out of the mass of wreckage the bare facts as 
were produced by the investigation. Fourteen distinct 
cuts were discovered, any one of which would have been 
sufficient to have caused death. After a careful search 
we were unable to find any other evidence that might lead 

























































184 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


to the identity of the criminals. However, we found 
two small well worn bags that plainly showed what the 
old man had kept his savings hidden in. 

With a few instructions to the officer and leaving the 
body in charge of a deputy coroner, we left the place and 
proceeded back to central station to report to Captain 
Bradish the facts as were uncovered. It was then that I 
asked the captain if I could work with Leon, if I would 
agree not to publish any of the details he uncovered until 
he gave his consent. Bradish gave me another nod of 
approval and I hastened to my office and wrote the pre¬ 
liminary story up to that time and received from my city 
editor instructions to stay with Leon until the finish. 

By noon, Leon and I were delving into the mystery he 
had been directed to solve, and over a table in a Latin 
quarter restaurant we discounted all the unimportant facts 
we had found, and, between a course of soup and 
spaghetti which had been served to us in a curtained 
booth, Leon drew from his inside pocket a blood-stained 
dagger he had carefully wrapped in brown paper. 
Examining this carefully, he found on the silvered edge of 
its elk horn handle an inscription that made this even 
keeled detective almost jump from his seat. “Nick, look, 
I believe we got the dope,” he said, as he passed the 
weapon to me and pointed to the inscription engraved in 
Spanish letters. He translated it as being as follows: 
To Concepcion Becinto De Lugo, your friend, General 
Francisco Santa Ana. 

The De Lugo family was as famous in the history of 
early California as those of the Del Valles, Sepulvedas, 
Picos and other noted Spanish families whose ancestors 
came from Spain with Don Portola and afterward lived 
under the regime and teachings of the old Spanish padres, 
led by Father Junipero Serra. 

It took only a minute for Leon to grasp the impor- 


JUST A LITTLE DOG 


185 


tance of this event, and he said: “Nick, cut the food and 
let’s get out of here. We must get busy and find how 
this knife got out of the Lugo family’s possession.” We 
paid our bill, rented a horse and buggy and drove to the 
old hacienda of the Lugos who owned a large tract of 
land not far from Los Angeles; yet it took us all after¬ 
noon to reach our destination. 

We were met at the entrance of the property by little 
Juan, whose mother was a Lugo, and when we told him 
of our mission and Leon said he wanted to see his mother, 
we were ushered into a large adobe home, and after being 
greeted, were asked if we had as yet had our supper, 
which was later served to us in that very hospitable style 
peculiar to the ancient Californians. 

When Leon showed this dear old lady the dagger, 
tears came into her eyes and she said: “Senor, that has 
been in our family for the past seventy years and was giv¬ 
en to my father by General Santa Ana as a token of his 
friendship and good will. It has hung there on our wall 
as the one cherished memento of our family. Where did 
you get it? But it was not rusted like it is now.” She 
fondly caressed it and started to repolish the silver blade, 
when Leon jumped to his feet and gallantly as possible 
took it from her, explaining that that was not rust, but 
human blood and must be retained as a matter of evidence 
to be used against the murderer. With a scream and a 
shudder, Mrs. Fezenda shrank from the instrument, say¬ 
ing in Spanish: “My God, Senor, what do you mean?” 
“That’s just it, Mrs. Fezenda,” said Leon, “that’s why we 
are here. How did it get out of your possession?” 
“Por Dias Anego, Senor. You don’t mean to insinuate 
that some of my people have committed murder?” “No, 
no, my dear lady,” answered Leon, and then he told her 
of the Brogg murder, and how we found the knife 
clutched in the stiffened fingers of the corpse. The fire 


186 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


of Castile seemed to burn in the eyes of this old soul as 
she looked from one to the other of us, and grasping 
both arms of her chair, she said: “Gentlemen, the blood 
of the Lugos must be avenged; the family honor has been 
insulted; the gift of Santa Ana has been desecrated.” And 
turning to her family, she arose from her chair and, in as 
stately a fashion as was ever assumed by Mary, Queen 
of Scots, she said: “My children, you have heard what 
I said. It is now your duty to aid and assist this officer 
in bringing to justice the one who has brought the stain 
upon our good name.” 

Little Juan, who was then but a lad in his teens, 
jumped to his mother’s side and said: “Mamma, I know 
who stole that dagger, it was Castro.” Leon and I both 
grabbed the boy and said: “Who is Castro?” As I had 
been so intense with interest as I had listened to the 
elderly lady and pictured the old Spanish traditions that 
seemed to radiate from her as she spoke, I had most for¬ 
gotten where we were until little Juan’s remark had 
brought me to my senses, and I, too, repeated: “Who is 
Castro?” Castro, Jose Castro, had for a long time been 
a “Cholo” ranch hand employed by the Fezendas and, 
according to Juan, had suddenly left the place about two 
weeks before, and with his going the silver dagger was 
missing. Juan said that Castro had a friend in Sonora 
town named Jose Rodriguez. Sonora town, by the way, 
was the Mexican quarter of Los Angeles. Rodriguez 
had often called at the ranch for Castro and they would 
come back to Los Angeles to spend the Mexican holidays. 
Leon knew Rodriguez, and perhaps there we could find 
Castro. He was his only friend. 

Thanking the family for their friendliness and kind¬ 
ness to us, we bade them adieu and started back to the city 
of Los Angeles. We arrived there close to midnight. 

With Leon, sleep meant little. I was able to grab a 


JUST A LITTLE DOG 


187 


snooze or two on the way in, and when the lights of the 
city loomed before us, I was much refreshed and ready to 
start on the trail of our quarry. 

We went direct to Rodriguez’s home, and after awak¬ 
ening him, rushed into his quarters, thinking perhaps 
Castro might still be there, but he was not. Leon turned 
to Rodriguez and, after a hurried conversation in Span¬ 
ish, the startled and blinking Mexican told Leon that 
Castro had been there but left the night before and had 
told him that he was going to Barstow, and from there 
to Arizona. Rodriguez knew better than to mislead or 
lie to Leon, who was looked up to and regarded as a su¬ 
perhuman being by his element in this district. However, I 
said to Leon, when he told me what Rodriguez had said: 
“Don’t you think he is giving you the wrong steer?” 

“No, Nick, I have known Rodriguez for a long time 
and he knows better than to lie to me, and besides he is a 
good ‘Cholo,’ never been pinched and has worked for the 
railroad companies many years. Our trail now leads to 
Barstow; do you want to go?” Did I want to go? I 
would just as leave quit my job as to quit good old 
Leon at this time. 

If autos had only been in vogue then, what it would 
have meant to us that midnight! Leon phoned the South¬ 
ern Pacific railroad office and found that no passenger 
trains would leave until morning, but that a freight was 
pulling out at 1 a. m., loaded with lemons for the east, and 
was considered fast and would get us into Barstow some 
four hours before the next passenger train left. It was no 
trick for Leon to arrange with the conductor to let us 
ride in the caboose. With what time we had to put up 
our horse and get to the depot we could just about make 
it. Fate was good to us and we did make the train. Ar¬ 
riving at Barstow, Leon left me at the depot, as he 
started to make inquiries in the Mexican section of this 


188 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


border desert town. It was not long before he returned 
and said: “Nick, it looks like the desert for us, and I 
am afraid you can’t stand the trip. You had better stay 
here until I get this bird and I will meet you here tomor¬ 
row.” Again the shades of Horace Greeley danced be¬ 
fore me. Me a reporter hot on the trail of the murderer 
and quitting the job because of some dried up sand dunes. 
Not me. J pleaded and begged to be allowed to continue. 
Finally, I won, but he said I w r ould have to change my 
clothes for some that he could borrow from a friend who 
was going to loan him some pack mules and an outfit. 

In just another hour we were decked out in desert 
togs and had packed supplies and water and had started. 
Much has already been written about the sufferings of 
prospectors under the hot desert suns, so I will pass over 
that part of the trip which lasted all day, and it is not 
pleasant to recount a tenderfoot’s experience on his first 
trip of this kind with little or no time for real preparation. 
Suffice to say that we surely suffered enough. We could 
see in the distance a low range of hills, and like the often 
told mirages we fancied we would find there some hidden 
oasis. We figured we would reach these hills by night¬ 
fall and like the sheik pitch our camp for the night. 
Time meant lots for us, as Leon related to me as we 
crossed those hot sands, how his friends in Barstow had 
told him that they had seen a man answering Castro’s 
description outfit himself with a mule, and how he said 
he was going to prospect for gold in Death Valley, made 
famous in later years by the notorious Scotty. 

We tracked this line animal and the footprints of a 
man all that day, and at dusk weary and tired stopped to 
rest and make supper. The only other time we had 
stopped was shortly after noon and I guess we did not 
fully realize what the second stop would mean. After 
giving the burros water and fodder we proceeded to feed 


189 


JUST A LITTLE DOG 

ourselves. I guess I overfed myself, and, coupled with 
the traveling, I became quite sick. I tried to prevent 
Leon from seeing my condition. As he started to break 
camp I pulled myself together and attempted to get on 
my feet but fell over. Leon gave me one look and pulled 
that old story title: “I told you so.” I was too sick 
to answer him back. “Well, kid,” he said, “I knew you 
could not stand this stuff.” But, like the big brother he 
was, he bathed my head in the cool water we had carried 
in the ollas, packed up our burros and asked me if I 
thought we could make the hills before we stopped for the 
night. It was only about two miles farther on. I tried 
again to start but could not. This worried Leon and 
he said we would stay here all night, and he then pro¬ 
ceeded to unpack the animals and make camp. As the 
cool of the evening came on I seemed to feel better, hav¬ 
ing being propped up with part of the pack outfit, while 
Leon started rolling a cigarette and became very quiet, 
only interrupting the stillness of the evening by asking 
me now and then if I was feeling better. Suddenly out 
from the starlit sky, peculiar to the desert conditions, he 
saw something that made him jump to his feet and drag 
out his .44 and assume a kneeling position. He called 
to me to look. There, about 200 yards from us between 
the hills and our camp was a form of some small black 
object cautiously approaching us. We could see the two 
little bead like eyes sparkling in the night as the little 
form drew closer. “Looks like a skunk, Nick,” Leon 
said, “but it sure is a long way from home out here.” 
Fearing what might happen if this little creature were 
disturbed Leon started to advance toward it, either hop¬ 
ing to scare it off or kill it before it came too close to our 
camp. Personally, I did not care much what it was, having 
the same feeling one has aboard a storm-tossed ship while 
undergoing a good case of seasickness. 


190 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


I noticed, however, Leon was just raising his right 
arm and about to take aim with the old trusty shooting 
iron when the little animal let out a series of faint barks. 
It was a dog, just a little black woolly dog. Instead of 
stopping it came slowly forward, its little frame wobbling 
from side to side and its tongue hanging out as though it 
was pitifully begging for water. “Don’t kill it, Leon,” 
I said, “perhaps it is lost.” Then, again, I knew just 
how that little brute felt. Was I not in the same fix just 
a short time before. “Don’t worry, Nick, I won’t,” 
answered this big hulk of humanity who had so tenderly 
nursed me back to life a few minutes ago. The little 
thing kept coming and letting out short yelps at every 
step. Leon rushed out to pick it up and brought it into 
our stopping place. He gave it a little water and a few 
strings of jerked meat, which for several minutes it 
refused to eat. It just laid down and panted and looked 
at both of us as though trying to tell us its story. 

I guess perhaps an hour passed while Leon tried 
to nourish the little cur before it finally got up to its feet 
and started howling and barking and started off in the 
direction from which it came, only to return again and 
repeat these antics several times, always barking and 
trying to tell us something. Leon knowing better than 
I, the call of nature, said: “Nick, I think this dog belongs 
to some one who has lost his way and having the animal 
instinct it has come to us for aid for its master. I guess I 
had better follow it and see what it wants.” By this 
time I had revived considerably and told him I guessed I 
could make the hills now all right, so we packed up our 
stuff and followed this dumb, yet intelligent brute. His 
path led us on over the sands and around and into a small 
canyon of this low range of hills that skirts the border of 
the Mojave desert. At the mouth of this canyon stood 
the form of a bewhiskered man perhaps some sixty years 


JUST A LITTLE DOG 


191 



of age whom some would call a desert rat but in reality 
he was a prospector bronzed with the sun and winds, 
and spoke with a voice, cracked with the desert heat so 
characteristic of this tribe of humanity who seek the 
solitary seclusion of the hills in search of God’s hidden 
treasures. 

“Howdy, friends,” he said, as he proffered his out¬ 
stretched hand. “Are you all lost?” “Not exactly,” an¬ 
swered Leon, “but I got a sick boy on my hands and we 
had just started to the valley but I am afraid he cannot 
make it. You see he is a tenderfoot from New York and 
is studying to be a mining engineer and his folks sent 
him to me to teach him the part of mining he cannot 
learn in college.” I looked at Leon and marveled at 
his quick wit and ability to alibi us as I realized then he 
figured that our friend Castro might also be a friend of 
our new host. I took the cue at once and kept my mouth 
shut. 

The old man asked us into his roughly built cabin, 
which to our surprise nestled under some trees. It was 






































192 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


a real oasis there on the edge of the desert hidden from 
view around the corner of this mystery canyon. I have 
thought so many times since how many poor souls have 
passed the spot, yet so near but unknown to them. 

Leon clutched my arm and said in a whisper as the 
old man led the way to his cabin: “We may find Castro 
here but don’t let on we are after him.” I knew what 
he meant and resolved to play my part as a college 
student. As we entered the shack we saw in a dimly 
lighted room the form of a man crouched in a corner who 
eyed us suspiciously as we entered. He did not seem 
to be a bit glad to see us. It was our man we were sure, 
but not certain. 

The old man told us to make ourselves at home and 
said we were the third persons his little “Pansy” had 
brought in off the desert in the last two days. He nodded 
his head in the direction of the silent figure in the corner 
as the other victim. He told us how he had watched ev¬ 
ery day for straggling prospectors and had trained his lit¬ 
tle “Pansy” to go forth and bring them in as a child had 
trained his pet to go after a thrown stick. 

He said: “You know ‘Pansy’ is all I have left. When 
my wife died I felt I never again wanted to see the 
crowds in the streets, so I just gathered together what 1 
would need as a prospector, took ‘Pansy,’ who was then 
only a pup, and came out here. I guess she has saved 
more lives than any living dog today. I have been here 
now six years, stranger, and all the gold I could dig 
would not be enough to buy that hound.” As he was 
talking, “Pansy” just lav at his feet with her head between 
her paws, and when the old man called her name the 
little black bunch of fur got up and barked as much as to 
say, “What do you want me to do now?” He said he 
had named her “Pansy” because that was his wife’s 
favorite flower. Now, it is not hard to imagine how we 


JUST A LITTLE DOG 


193 


felt toward “Pansy” after she had delivered us out of 
that desert waste just a short time before. 

Leon then unrolled our blankets and I soon fell 
asleep listening to the old man talk of his dog to Leon. 

Next morning I noticed that Leon looked tired and 
worn out. I afterward found out that he had not slept 
at all that night, ever watching the sleeping form of the 
third stranger. Reluctantly, this fellow joined us at 
breakfast and then we saw he was our “Cholo.” He, 
too, had lost his way and welcomed the haven given him 
by our host. Leon talked a little to him in Spanish, 
gradually trying to draw him out as to who he was and 
where he was going. He said he was going to w r ork in 
a borax mine out here and had lived in Barstow a long 
time. We were still sure that he was Castro, yet our 
description might fit any of a hundred of his caste. Then 
again, to take him back across the sands and find he was 
not the man wanted meant certain disgrace to this man 
hunter, w 7 hich he would likely not countenance. 

I will pass over the following three hours we spent 
trying in every conceivable way to satisfy ourselves that 
he was Castro, when suddenly the latter got up from his 
chair and something dropped on the floor beside him. 
Leon reached down, picked it up and was about to hand it 
to him when he saw it was a silver scabbard. The Mexi¬ 
can’s eyes flashed. He was about to draw something from 
the front of his shirt, but my trusted pal was too quick 
for him. In the twinkling of an eye Leon had him 
covered with a revolver he always carried under his 
left armpit, commanding him in Spanish to throw up his 
hands and turn around. He was now facing me. 
“Nick,” said Leon, “get his gat; it is in his shirt front.” 
This was my first play at this game and I guess this 
“Cholo” knew it, as I was shaking like a leaf. However, 
I got the gun and Leon made him put his hands behind 


194 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


him as he slipped the old style handcuffs over his wrists. 

We both then made a careful search of his person, 
but could not find any of Brogg’s money. As for our 
man, he was Castro, for there engraved in Spanish on 
the silver scabbard were the greetings from General 
Santa Ana to Senor Lugo. We searched the pack from 
Castro’s mule and there found nearly every dollar of 
Brogg’s money, some three thousand in all. 

All that was to follow was to return with our prisoner. 
We had cleared the good name of the Lugos. We were 
about to avenge the desecration of Santa Ana’s gift. 
We could make Castro pay the price demanded by 
society for taking the life of a fellow-man. 

Now, if I could end my narrative here just like in 
after years all of the interesting movies do, perhaps my 
readers would be well pleased, but, my friends, it is not 
in the cards. Life outside story book fiction is different, 
as truth often plays queer pranks, just so here. I must 
finish my story as it happened. I must tell more of little 
“Pansy” because after all it is around this little dog I am 
writing my story. 

Realizing as we did, to start from the old man’s 
place at noon would mean that we would have to camp 
all night on the desert with our prisoner, Leon decided 
it would be better to stay here all night and leave early 
next morning. Each of us took turns the following night 
watching Castro. 

As the first rays of light crept over the horizon we 
bade our prospector friend a most fond adieu, and as¬ 
sured him that if at any time he ever came to Los Angeles 
he would always find us and a hearty welcome at police 
headquarters. We gave “Pansy” a few parting pats and 
told her owner to be sure to bring her along, too. With 
our prisoner in front of us we started on our way, arriv¬ 
ing in Barstow about 4:00 o’clock that afternoon. We 


JUST A LITTLE DOG 


195 


wired Captain Bradish that we had captured our man 
and would arrive in Los Angeles at 11 :00 that night. 
The result of our case is a matter of public record. The 
last I heard, Castro was still serving a life sentence. 
However, two years later, fate again interceded. It was 
one of those California nights. A slight drizzling rain 
was falling over the city. As Leon and I had just 
returned from lunch about 11:00 p. m., and were going 
up the sidewalk about half a block from central station, 
we noticed a small canvas covered wagon drawn by two 
small burros, stop in front of the station and a man leave 
his seat and enter the building. As he did so, an officer 
whose name at this time I will not mention, came out 
of the detective office, walked over to the wagon and 
started to lift up the canvas covering. Just then a little 
black dog started barking at him from the side of the 
wagon, and when the officer slapped at the dog it jumped 
from the seat to the sidewalk and snapped at the offi¬ 
cer’s leg. After a second’s hesitation, the officer drew 
his revolver and shot the animal on the spot. Its little 
form crumpled to the ground and a crimson stream 
trickled down the wet sidewalk. We were by this time 
not ten feet from the spot. 

Leon gave him one look and said to his fellow 
officer: “You damned coward, it’s men like you that cause 
the average citizen to hate and despise us coppers and 
if I were your chief I would fire you for what you have 
just done.” Leon dared not stay longer, as he feared his 
wrath would get the best of him and I, too, decided to 
leave and intended to roast him in a story in the morning 
for his apparently brutal action of a moment before. 

As I was about to enter the building the old man 
just came out of another entrance, and when he saw 
what had happened he looked at the copper, then at the 
dying dog, and for a moment seemed stunned. He saw 


196 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


the fellow put away his pistol and seemed to understand 
what had taken place. “My dog”—tears streaming 
down his face. He picked up the bleeding form and tried 
to revive it. Clutching it to his breast he said: “Oh, 
Mister, why did you kill my little dog, it’s the best friend 
I have. It never would have harmed you if you had 
not bothered it.” And as he placed it back on the side 
of his wagon he turned to the copper and said: “Some 
day you too will get shot down like that and may God 
forgive you for what you have done tonight.” 

It was the most pathetic speech I had ever heard. 
For a moment I stood in a daze. For a moment I, too, 
was a coward, for there in the dimly lighted street I had 
failed to recognize; I, too, was ashamed of my fellow 
man. I rushed into the building and called to Leon: 
“It’s ‘Pansy’ and our desert friend.” Leon stared at me 
and said: “What, he killed ‘Pansy’?” We rushed back 



“Some day you’ll die like this dog!” 

































































































197 


JUST A LITTLE DOG 

to the street only to see the ramshackle wagon disappear¬ 
ing down the hill in the drizzling rain. We both stood 
and looked. I don’t know why we did not follow it. 
Leon has never been able to tell either. I guess we were 
both too ashamed; I guess we were both mental cowards. 
It was too big a task for our conscience to overcome, for 
how could we explain after what he and little “Pansy” had 
done for us? How could we ever explain his reception 
when he had called there at the station to find us? 

We have talked of this many times since, particularly 
on one rainy, drizzling night not so very long ago when 
a bandit’s bullet had stilled the beating heart of this 
self-same officer who had killed “Pansy.” As I said 
before, I won’t mention this officer’s name as it would 
do no good, but Leon and I both wondered—was his 
death the result of a curse cast upon him by our desert 
friend and owner of that little woolly dog, “Pansy”? I 
will not try to answer; I will leave it to you. 



THE JET EARRINGS 


npHIS is a story of a wealthy woman, a pair of earrings 
and an indignant friend. It has to do with a cer¬ 
tain December afternoon, when I was called into con¬ 
ference by Manager Barry of the Ville de Paris, an ex¬ 
clusive store in Los Angeles, and informed that he was 
having trouble with a mysterious thief who was using the 
firm’s charge accounts to obtain untold quantities of 
things. 

“Her system is simplicity itself,” said the manager. 
“But the old problem is involved, cherez la femme!” 

He had piqued my curiosity. A hunt for a woman 
always gives a detective a thrill. For one thing, a woman 
is usually a good bluffer. She plays the game out to the 
limit. That makes the affair interesting. Then, too, 
she is a magnificent liar, and once she is in your net, she 
will stand up and look you in the eye and brazen it out. 
It is almost as good a game as poker, with a clever wo¬ 
man for an opponent. 

“You mean you know it is a woman?” I asked. 

He smiled. 

“Well, reasonably,” he said. “We are judging by 
what she gets.” 

Phantom Shoplifter 

Thereupon he unfolded the story of the “phantom 
shoplifter” who had cost his concern a matter of nearly 
a $1,000. This promised to be a real case. As he 
explained, her system was the essence of simplicity. 

The woman, whoever she was, would enter a depart- 


199 


THE JET EARRINGS 

ment store, select certain expensive goods and ask to 
have them charged. She would then give the name of 
some customer who had a charge account at the store. 
The charge would be referred to the credit man. He 
would glance at the name—usually that of some wealthy 
woman—and “O. K.” the charge. The article would be 
delivered to the woman waiting below and she would 
leave. The firm would not discover what had happened 
until it presented a bill at the end of the month, when the 
person to whom it was charged would come in and pro¬ 
test the charge. 

“We have had every store detective in the place at 
work on the case, Nick,” said the manager, “and yet 
she always beats us. You see, we do a large volume of 
charge business, and many of our wealthy customers shop 
through maids, relatives and the like. We can’t know ev¬ 
ery one of them personally, and it makes it hard. This 
woman might be posing as a maid or something of the 
kind. Get me?” 

I did get him better than he knew. I had had a case 
of that kind just a few months before. It might have 
been the same person, for the system was apparently 
the same. After weeks of work, I had been able to get 
exactly nowhere. I felt no growing burst of enthusiasm 
over another case of similar nature, and I said so. The 
manager shrugged his shoulders. 

“We have no other court of last resort but you, 
Nick,” he said. 


Flattery Works 

Of course, even a detective is susceptible to that kind 
of a statement. So we announced bravely, editorially 
speaking, that we would sail right in and solve the 
mystery and save the department store thousands of 


200 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


dollars, just as detectives did in the movies. The man¬ 
ager laughed. 

“If you don’t do something,” he said, “we are going 
out of business pretty soon. The way this woman is 
getting us we won’t have enough stock on the shelves to 
pull through the Christmas season.” 

We parted after that. I had nothing—absolutely 
nothing—on which to work. Neither did he, and we 
both knew it. Somewhere in a city of 250,000 persons 
was a woman, and I was expected to find that woman 
with nothing on which to go—not even a description. 
Some prospect—one of the “simple” things frequently 
passed over to a detective to be solved. 

But as I have always maintained, everything comes 
to him who waits—especially the detective who had 
patience enough to sit down and wait for it. And so, 
one day, the unexpected happened. We got a letter. 

It was from a woman—a wealthy resident of the 



“You say you have not purchased a necklace here?” 






































































































201 


THE JET EARRINGS 

Westlake district, who was one of the firm’s regular 
customers. I quote it from memory: 

“If you call at my home I shall be very glad to return 
to you the pearl necklace which you dropped on the car 
yesterday afternoon.” 

The letter was signed by a Mrs. J. D. Vance, or so 
we shall call her. The customer, upon receiving the 
letter from Mrs. Vance instead of going to the Vance 
home, came to us and informed the store manager that 
she had purchased no necklace. The manager sent for 
me and I was introduced to the customer. 

“You say you have not purchased a necklace here?” 
I asked. 

“No,” she replied. “Further, I was not on any car 
yesterday. I always travel in my own machine.” 

Both Have Same Thought 

She handed over the letter and left. We sat stunned 
—the manager and I—staring at each other. The same 
thought struck us both. Mrs. Vance! 

Half an hour later I was at the home of Mrs. J. 
D. Vance. When I introduced myself she went at once 
and, procuring the necklace, laid it in my hands, together 
with a charge tag bearing the name of the customer. I 
began to see light. 

“This lady,” I said, indicating the customer’s name, 
“declares she did not purchase a necklace at the store 
and was not on the car yesterday.” 

Mrs. Vance’s face was a study. 

“But-” 

“The woman you saw,” I explained, “was some 
other woman impersonating the customer. We have 
been looking for her for some time. If you could give 
us a description of her—?” 

Mrs. Vance puckered up her eyes and thought. 



202 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


“Why,” she said after a moment, with true feminine 
perspicacity for details, “she was quite an ordinary 
woman, although very stylishly gowned. I didn’t notice 
anything particular about her save that she had on a fur 
coat and a brown hat, trimmed with fur of the same color, 
and carried a hand carved alligator handbag with a sil¬ 
ver monogram, and patent leather pumps with black silk 
stockings, with a strap over the instep, and walked with 
a slight limp, and was very much made up, and was 
about 40 years old, with brown hair and dark eyes, and 
wore South Sea Island jet earrings.” 

I sat back limp. She hadn’t noticed anything par¬ 
ticular about her! My word! I wondered what she 
would have seen had she taken a good look at her. After 
a bit I came back to earth. 

“Th-thank you,” I murmured. “I guess that will 
help.” 

With almost a Bertillon photograph of the woman 
sought, I returned to the Ville de Paris and called on 
Manager Barry. 

“Slip this description around among your clerks 
right away and see if any of them recalls a woman of 
this description,” I said. 

Six Remember Her 

He touched a buzzer and a stenographer came in. 
He dictated a copy of what I had written on the back 
of an envelope, as I talked with Mrs. Vance. Then we 
awaited results. 

To our surprise, not less than six clerks reported that 
a woman of that type had made various purchases at 
the store over a matter of several months. They did 
not identify her with any special thing on account of 
the fact that a great number of customers pass through 
their hands daily. But one and all they recalled the jet 


203 


THE JET EARRINGS 

earrings. This was encouraging, but it did not get us 
anywhere except that it put all the clerks on the lookout 
for the woman. If she struck again, we would have her. 

In the meantime, just on a chance, I went out to 
the house of the customer and asked her if she knew 
anyone that w r ore earrings of the type described, tier 
eyes opened. 

“Why, yes, I do,” she said. I felt my heart jump. 

“Who?” I asked. 

She looked at me for a long time. Then she shook 
her head. 

“It can’t be,” she said. “The only woman I know is 
a good friend—prominent in society, a bridge player, 
and the wife of one of the leading attorneys of the city. 
I would as soon suspect a member of my own family.” 

Of course that made no impression on me—the latter 
part. In the business of crime detection one learns to 
suspect the most impeccable persons without reservation 
or hesitation. So I asked for this woman’s name. My 
informant gave it reluctantly. 

“Mrs. John Waterbury,” she said. This was not 
the exact name, but it is near enough for the purpose* 
of this story. 

Ticklish Situation 

I whistled. I knew her husband. He was in truth 
one of the legal factors in the city and a man who would 
not stop at anything to protect his wife in an emergency. 
I saw right away that we would have to go slowly. I 
thanked my informant and returned to the store, where 
we had a conference that lasted far into the day. 

“The situation is this,” I explained to the manager. 
“Either you have got to go through with this thing and 
protect your store, or else you will have to drop it now. 



204 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


No halfway measures can be used with a woman of this 
nature, if she proves to be the woman we are after.” 

The manager agreed. 

“But for heaven’s sake, Nick,” he said, “don’t stir up 
a hornet’s nest. Don’t make a move without the ab¬ 
solute evidence.” 

I promised that I would be diplomatic in the matter. 
I realized full well the dangerous ground on which we 
were treading and I had no intention of making a 
mistake. So I set out on the trail of Mrs. Waterbury 
to collect my evidence. 

She lived, I determined, in an expensive apartment 
fronting on Westlake park. The landlord occupied an 
apartment at the rear. On the pretext of renting an 
apartment, I engaged him in conversation. To my joy 
I saw a fraternal emblem on his buttonhole—the same 
that I myself wore. After that it was easy. I revealed 
my identity and explained my errand. He pondered. 

“Mrs. Waterbury is not at home, just at present,” 
he said. “She has gone to dinner at the home of a Mrs. 
Parker on Wilshire boulevard. I might let you in— 
I’ll tell you what I 'll do. We'll go up together. We 
can look around. If she comes in you'll be a curtain 
man that is measuring the apartment windows with me. 
How’s that?” 

I said that would suit me to a dot. Together we 
went up to the apartment, where the landlord opened 
the door w r ith a key and admitted me. I have hardly 
ever seen a more luxurious setting for an apartment 
home. Oriental tapestries were everywhere. There 
were battered brass lamps, huge mahogany chairs and a 
wealth of bric-a-brac and what Ring Lardner calls “jazz 
statuary.” 


205 


THE JET EARRINGS 

A Queen's Wardrobe 

When we came to the closets I fairly gasped. That 
woman had clothes that would have turned the Queen 
of Sheba green with envy. I saw right there that I was 
going to be swamped. So I went at the thing in another 
way; I started to search her waste basket. Here I got 
results. 

In the bottom of the basket I found a couple of de¬ 
partment store charge tags with names, not those of Mrs. 
Waterbury. The landlord watched me curiously as I 
dug them out and compared them. 

“What do they give you?” he asked me at length. 

“Just about everything I want,” I replied. 

“Huh,” commented my new found ally. “Want 
any more of ’em?” I turned in surprise. 

“Any more? Why, yes, of course. Do you know 
where there are any?” 

By way of an answer, he led me to a waste paper 
chute at the rear of the apartment, on the ground floor. 
There I found half a dozen more papers—department 
store tags all in the names of women I learned after¬ 
wards to be customers of the store. 

There was nothing more to be done there. I was 
elated over my discovery and returned to the department 
store and laid the situation before the manager. He 
studied over it for a moment, and then took matters by 
the horns, so to speak. 

“Nick,” he said, “let’s go down and get a warrant 
for her this afternoon—right away—now. She’s been 
doing this about long enough.” 

Of course this was directly in line with my own ideas, 
and I did not discourage him. 

“All right,” I said, “we’ll get the warrant and then 
we’ll go right down to that dinner and gather in our 


206 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


lady. I’ve got enough evidence right here now. And 
Eve seen the inside of her apartment. I’ll wager $500 
more than two-thirds of it is stolen.” 

Warrant Obtained 

That settled him. One sometimes has to prime an 
employer as well as a “lizzie,” especially when he is 
reticent about prosecuting a woman. So we hunted 
out a police judge and a clerk, according to the usual 
formalities. Fifteen minutes later, with a city detective 
in the machine with us we proceeded to the home of 
Mrs. Parker in the Wilshire district, where Mrs. Water- 
bury was said to be at lunch. 

Mrs. Parker herself answered the door. Detective 
Hanson and myself waited at the door while she called 
Mrs. Waterbury. The latter came out presently, an 
exquisitely gowned, refined appearing woman of about 
thirty-five years of age. The color slowly ebbed from 






































































207 


THE JET EARRINGS 

her features as she saw us standing there together. It 
was apparent to me that she sensed our errand. 

“You wish to see me?” she asked pleasantly. 

“We have a warrant for you,” I said as quietly as I 
could. 

For a brief second she closed her eyes and I thought 
she was going to faint. Then she opened them again. 

“I—I was expecting this,” she said. 

She stood for a moment looking down at her hands, 
her fingers interlaced. When she raised her head, her 
eyes were filled with tears. 

“Will you let me go back—please don’t tell them!” 

She spoke incoherently, with a quick gesture toward 
the dining room, from which we could hear laughter in 
women’s tones and the mellow sound of dishes. 

Glad of Arrest 

“I will make some excuse to them—say my husband 
has sent for me, or something of that kind—and come 
back to you,” she said. “I will then go with you—” 

“Keep within sight of us, then, Mrs. Waterbury,” 
I said. “We can’t take any chances with you—” 

“Oh, I shall, I shall. You need not fear, I shall 
not try to get away. I am glad it has come. The sus¬ 
pense has been terrible.” 

We stood there while she went back to the door and 
made a quiet little self-possessed speech. I marveled at 
her control as she faked up the excuse that her husband 
needed her signatures to some papers, a business deal, 
and she would be right back. It gave me some index 
to the cleverness with which she had conducted her oper¬ 
ations. She was one of the most convincing persons 
I have ever come in contact with. 

A maid brought wraps, and the three of us proceeded 
at once to police headquarters. From there I telephoned 



208 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


to the department store, and the manager came down. 
Mrs. Waterbury laid her cards on the table. She admit¬ 
ted more than a dozen thefts of high grade stuff, secured 
on charge accounts. She said she used her social acquain¬ 
tances to foster her plans. Whenever she learned of a 
friend with a charge account she profited by it. 

We read the warrant to her there and she was 
booked and taken in charge by the jail matron. She 
asked permission to telephone her husband. He was not 
in his office and she left word for him to call at the jail. 
And then, for the first time in her carefully nurtured, 
daintily guarded life, she went to a cell and remained 
there. 

Irresistible Mania 

Her only explanation—the only one, at any rate, that 
she gave us—for her wholesale looting of the depart¬ 
ment store, when she herself was a more or less wealthy 
woman and possessed of every comfort, was an irresist¬ 
ible mania for possession which exceeded her income. 

“I lose a great deal playing bridge,” she said. “Then 
I see pretty things and want them, and—well, under 
those circumstances, there is nothing left but to steal them, 
is there?” 

The manager walked back to my office with me. We 
sat talking for some time about the case. The manager 
was still nervous about the whole affair; I laughed at him. 

“You heard her admit the thefts?” I asked him. 

“Yes—but suppose she backs up on that? Suppose—” 

“The police have already been out and searched 
her house and brought in the stolen stuff, haven’t they?” 

“Yes, but—” 

“There isn’t any ‘but.’ The woman is guilty. I don’t 
care whether she backs up or not. You can identify the 
goods that we found in her home. They were stolen, 
weren’t they? Well—what’s the matter with you?” 



209 


THE JET EARRINGS 

The manager went out shaking his head. He had an 
ingrained fear of picking the wrong person. In this case, 
however, I knew there was no mistake. 

Ten minutes after the manager departed, my tele¬ 
phone rang. I took down the receiver to find the most 
indignant man in the world, at that moment, busily 
engaged in “panning” me from the other end. 

“You are a fine stiff!” was his greeting. 

“Hello—whom is this?” 

“Harry—” 

Close Friend Calls 

Harry was one of my best friends—an attorney, and 
as I well knew a close intimate of Waterbury. They 
had been together in several cases, and I saw how the 
land lay. 

“Yes, Harry. What’s the row?” 

“Well, you poor fish, you have got your foot into 
a nice mess,” he comforted. “Locking up Mrs. Water¬ 
bury. Her husband just called me up and told me about 
.it. Say, Nick, for the love of Mike, how did you come 
to pull a bloomer like that?” 

“That’s no bloomer, Harry,” I flung back. “We have 
the distinguished goods on the lady; furthermore, the 
lady is in jail and has confessed.” 

That stumped him for a moment. But he clung to 
his first statement. 

“Well, you may have scared her into a statement,” 
he said. “That’s the way with you fellows. You pick 
out somebody, bluff them into an incriminating remark, 
claim you have a confession and go into court with it. 
It’s the bunk—” 

“Listen here, Harry,” I cut in. I was hot under the 
collar by that time and I wasn’t any too cordial over 
the telephone. “I know what I am doing. This woman 



210 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


is a department store thief. We searched her apartment 
and found enough stolen loot to choke any attorney that 
ever tried to talk through his hat. She is go ng to be 
prosecuted for it and don’t you forget it. And she is 
going to be prosecuted, notwithstanding the efforts of any 
chicken-hearted legal light to cajole a detective out of 
what he knows to be a fact.” 

Both Got Angry 

I slammed up the telephone after that. I think Harry 
did, too. We were both mad. He sure thought I had 
“framed” a case and I thought he was trying to “pull me 
off.” And we both were ready to forget a long time 
friendship to resort to blows. We have laughed about it 
since, but at the time we were as pleasant to each other as 
a couple of sick wild cats. 

Mrs. Waterbury, however, to make a long story 
short, was guilty. Scores of women came to her rescue, 
only to learn that their confidence had been misplaced. 
She not only confessed to thefts in the store in question, 
but in other Los Angeles houses. Her confession cleared 
up many mysterious affairs that had been under inquiry 
for some time. But evidence of a serious illness which 
she had recently undergone, militated in her favor. With 
the evidence all in, she was permitted to reimburse the 
firms affected in the amounts they had lost. The affair 
ended here. Mrs. Waterbury was permitted to go free 
after restitution had been made in full. 

The real “knockout” in the case came a week later, 

when the door opened to admit Harry-to my office. 

He was grinning broadly. 

“Hello, Nick,” he said. “Can I come in?” 

“Leave your artillery with the stenographer,” I re¬ 
plied a bit tartly, for his remarks still rankled. 



211 


THE JET EARRINGS 

“Don’t be sore, Nick,” he said. “I came up to apolo¬ 
gize. I was wrong.” 

We shook hands after that. Finally Harry leaned 
across the table. 

“I want to explain something, Nick,” he said. “You 
know I got pretty well worked up over Mrs. Waterbury’s 
arrest—” 

“I’ll say you did,” I replied. 

Invited to Dinners 

“Well,” he laughed, “you see the wife and I had 
been rather intimate up there at the Waterbury home. 
We used to go there once in a while to dinner—a charm¬ 
ing woman, and a wonderful hostess—” 

“I understand,” I said. 

“No you don’t yet,” he said. I waited. 



“That’s why I’m here to apologize, Nick!” 









































































































212 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


“The night before her arrest,” he went on, “we 
were there to dinner. She served four of the finest little 
club steaks that I ever ate in my life. The wife and I 
talked about them all the way home.” 

“Well?” 

“Well, today I got my bill from the butcher. There, 
for the first time, I discovered that I had been paying 
for those four little steaks—” 

“You?” 

“Yes, Mrs. Waterbury had had them charged to me 
on my account, and everything else we had for supper 
at her house is also charged to me. So, Nick, it’s coming 
to you. Let’s be friends again. That’s why I’m here, 
Nick, apologizing.” 


QUEEN OF THE SAFE CRACKERS 


TT is hard to know where to begin in speaking of “Nim- 

ble Annie.” Her career was so varied, and her activ¬ 
ities so wide that no ordinary set of criminal memoirs 
could contain them all. Perhaps the closing chapter of 
her life is the most interesting, because it reveals better 
than anything the queer psychology of the woman whose 
record for “working banks” has never been equaled in 
this country. 

I had heard much of “Nimble Annie,” as has every 
police officer and detective in the United States, although 
not under that name. She has gone straight now, and 
in justice to her good intentions her real police cognomen 
must be submerged under the sometimes nickname of her 
intimates. But, in the days of which I speak, she was a 
byword in underground circles, where the aristocracy of 
caste is as strong as on the upper boulevards. 

My acquaintance with Annie began when I was called 
into consultation one afternoon by a manager of a prom¬ 
inent department store in the south in regard to a very 
peculiar happening. Los Angeles stores keep a close 
check on their property, and store detectives are every¬ 
where to protect the merchandise from the light fingered 
operations of tourist crooks that invariably pass through 
that city when they reach the coast. 

The manager of the store took me into his private 
office. 

“I don’t know what to do, Harris,” he said. “It’s all 
very mysterious. She seems to be one of our regular 
customers.” 


214 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 



“I don’t know what to do, Harris! It’s all very mysterious!” 


“Why not begin at the beginning?” I suggested. 
“What happened?” 

“We’ve been robbed,” he said, turning in his chair. 
“Cleaned as nice as anything you ever saw in your life.” 

“You mean your safe has been looted?” I asked 
in some surprise, for the office seemed orderly enough. 

“I only wish it had been,” said the manager. “It 
is worse than that. We have lost a fur hat!” 

His announcement was at such variance with the 
extreme lugubriousness of his expression that I burst 
out laughing. The manager stared at me helplessly. 

“Laugh while you can,” he said testily. “If you had 
my job. . .” 

“But a hat!” I exclaimed. “Since when has it been 
worse to steal a hat than rifle a safe?” 

“This hat is one of a three-piece set. There is a hat, 




























QUEEN OF THE SAFE CRACKERS 


215 


a muff and a stole. The three are worth $1,800. The 
hat alone is worth $500.” 

That was different. I began to understand some¬ 
thing of his situation. He saw that I had been impressed 
at last and rapidly sketched what had happened, pausing 
to assure me that with the hat gone, the set was valueless 
—a cool steal of approximately $1,500 figured in whole¬ 
sale quotations. 

“The only person who could possibly have taken it,” 
he said, “is a fine appearing old, white haired woman— 
a regular dowager—who frequently shops here. She 
always pays cash, and one day she seemed interested in 
the set. A short time after she left the hat disappeared.” 

“One of your regular customers?” I asked. 

Never Asked Credit 

“Well,” said the manager, “in the sense of a cash 
customer, yes. She never has asked for a charge account. 
She has plenty of money and buys expensive stuff. This 
missing hat is just the sort of thing she would go in for. 

I hate to suspect a customer, yet, by the simple process 
of elimination, it narrows down to her.” He considered. 
“Of course, we will have to be mighty careful in this 
thing. She might be above reproach.” 

It was a hard nut to crack. In regular shoplifting 
jobs there is usually some indication of the kind of per¬ 
son that has “worked” the place by the articles that are' 
taken. In this case, the theft of an expensive fur hat 
did not have the earmarks of a professional. It savored 
more of the work of some woman, hard up for the mo¬ 
ment, through bridge excesses or a limited allowance, 
who had taken a fancy to the hat and made away with it. 
Such thefts are not uncommon. 

“The only thing I can do is to place a watch on the 


216 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


store and when she comes again, trail her and learn her 
antecedents,” I said. “This may give us a clue.” 

The manager shook his head dubiously. 

“Well, whatever you do,” he said, “go slowly. She 
may turn out to be an important person and w r e may have 
to square the thing up some other way.” 

I realized his predicament. When a wealthy or 
prominent woman is detected stealing, the case requires 
a finesse and tact that would tax the ingenuity of a diplo¬ 
matic corps. I detailed a woman connected with my 
bureau to loiter about the store and watch for her. One 
of the clerks who had seen the woman was to point her 
out. In the meantime I took a detailed description of 
the woman and turned it over to a clerk to file with the 
other card index records. 

There was a little girl in my office named Mary—a 
bright Irish lass with a quick brain. She was filing the 
card in one of the cases when she stopped suddenly and 
studied it. Then she came over to my desk. 

“Mr. Harris,” she said, “I think that woman goes 
home with me on the same street car. There is a woman 
answering that description who gets off at my corner.” 

This seemed too good to be true, but in the detective 
business we learn very soon that the most improbable 
things are the ones that most often point a trail. That 
night when Mary went to her home, two of my opera¬ 
tives accompanied her. She was to point out the woman 
to them if she proved to be on the car as had been her 
custom on several previous nights. 

We did not catch her that night. But the very next 
night when Mary got off the car at Jefferson and Ver¬ 
mont streets, this woman got off with her. She was ex¬ 
quisitely gowned in the latest mode—tall, graceful, white 
haired, looking every inch a society woman of wealth and 
refinement. Mary trailed her on the opposite side of the 




QUEEN OF THE SAFE CRACKERS 217 

street a block away until she saw her turn into a house 
some two blocks from the car intersection. 

The next day two detectives, James Bean of the Los 
Angeles police office department, and L. M. Armstrong, 
of my office, went out to the house. The door Mary 
had indicated led to an upper flat. We were so secure 
of our quarry at this time that few precautions were 
taken. In other words, we did not believe it possible 
that a woman of the appearance of this one could be a 
store-lifter. Consequently the operatives figured only 
on asking a few general questions, making a guarded 
inquiry and getting away again. They wanted primarily 
to size her up. 

Hurried Flight 

They rang the doorbell. There was no response, 
although there were sounds from within which indicated 
that there was someone there. Finally Bean went around 
to the back door. Fie found it wide open, and peering 
inside discovered the remnants of a late breakfast on 
the table and places set for two. The coffee-pot was 
smoking and the toast was still warm. Evidently who¬ 
ever was in the flat fled the instant the bell rang. 

Cursing themselves for not taking better care, they 
started back for the office, first taking the precaution to 
circle through the neighborhood on the chance that they 
would see the woman with the white hair—a marked 
figure—somewhere about. What was their surprise to 
see, not two blocks from the house, a woman answering 
the description and with her a small, dark man apparently 
an Italian. 

“You circle the block and come in behind them,” 
said Bean, who was an old police detective and a wiz¬ 
ard at his business. “I will walk in the same direction 
with them on the opposite side of the street. When I see 




218 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


you closing in from behind I’ll turn and walk toward them. 
That will get them between us.” 

Armstrong followed instructions. He ran quickly 
around the block so as to come in behind the couple, who 
were walking along the street as though out for a stroll. 
Bean walked ahead of them, paying no attention to their 
movements until he saw Armstrong turn the corner and 
hurry down the block. By this time the couple were in 
the middle of the second block. 

Bean crossed the street and turned up the sidewalk 
directly toward the couple. They came toward him 
without slacking their pace. The woman gave Bean 
a quick, scrutinizing glance and said something to her 
companion. Bean, alert to every move, kept decreasing 
the distance between them, with Armstrong close behind 
and coming still closer. 

Midway of the block was an ancient yellow house of 
the gingerbread type now out of style. Behind the house 
was a corral with a board fence around it. The corral 
fence ran parallel to the sidewalk and for a distance 
of perhaps fifty feet. The little group came together 
directly beside this fence—the woman with the white hair, 
the dark man, Bean and Armstrong. Bean stopped 
them. 

“I want to talk to you just a minute,” he said. 

The woman gave him a quick, searching glance from 
a pair of keen, piercing eyes. Then she smiled and came 
closer. Bean thought she wanted to hear him more clear¬ 
ly. He was about to raise his voice and repeat his remark 
when the woman suddenly threw her arms around De¬ 
tective Bean, pinning his own arms to his side. 

“Run, Tony, run!” she screamed. 

The little dark man without a moment’s hesitation, 
turned, vaulted the high board fence with astonishing 
agility, and was away through the corral yard. As Bean 


QUEEN OF THE SAFE CRACKERS 


219 



The woman suddenly threw her arms around Detective Bean! 


struggled to free himself he heard Armstrong’s revolver 
crack and the “smack” of the bullet in the side of the 
shed that stood in the corner of the corral yard. The 
next instant Armstrong was over the fence in pursuit of 
the dark man. 

Bean freed himself and stepped back. 

“Well,” he said, “that was pretty slick, but we’ve got 
you, anyhow.” 

The woman smiled pleasantly, panting a bit from her 
exertions to hold the operative, and flicked a jabot into 
place. 

“You think so?” she said. “Well, we’ll see.” 

Armstrong came back after a bit and together they 
took the white-haired woman to police headquarters. 
She tried to bluff it out all the way to the station, threat- 



















































































































220 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


ening legal proceedings declaring that “somebody” would 
suffer for the indignity of her arrest, and demanding to 
know the charge. When informed that she was wanted 
for looting a department store of an expensive fur hat, 
she blazed at them. 

“I never was in that store in my life,” she declared. 
“I’ll make you cheap detectives smart for this, believe 
me.” 

After she was safely tucked away in a cell, Bean and 
Armstrong reported to me. Frankly, I was rather ner¬ 
vous about the whole matter. We really didn't have 
anything on her and if, as she insisted, she was the widow 
of a wealthy Paso Robles rancher, she was in a position 
to sue a whole lot of us for false imprisonment. It is 
this angle of many cases that often causes them to drag 
so interminably—the necessity of having every step sure 
and provable. 

With a couple of police detectives we went out to the 
woman’s apartment and searched it from top to bottom. 
There was nothing there, as richly furnished as it was, 
that indicated anything of the shoplifter. Matters began 
to look dubious and even the police officers shook their 
heads and said they thought we had gone off “half cocked” 
on the case. More or less disheartened, we returned 
to the police station. There was still one more card to 
play—my trump—and I played it. We went to her cell. 

My Last Card 

“I am going to take you up and have you finger¬ 
printed,” I said. 

The woman's eyes flashed. 

“You have no right to do that,” she flared at me. 
”1 have done nothing. I am not a criminal. I will make 
it hot for you. You will have to kill me to get those 
prints.” 


QUEEN OF THE SAFE CRACKERS 


221 


I sat down on a chair in her cell and talked to her. 
I explained that we were merely trying to do our duty 
and that if she was really innocent, and not “wanted” 
in any other jurisdiction, she had nothing to fear from 
the fingerprints. I argued that her refusal meant but one 
thing—that she was afraid. That got her. 

“Very well,” she snapped. “I’ll go. But heaven 
help you all when this mummery is over.” 

We took her into the print bureau. The operator 
brought out his ink roller and the record cards. The pris¬ 
oner was nice and amiable about it then, apparently giv¬ 
ing in with a cheerful philosophy to what she recognized 
as inevitable. But— 

Every time we got her fingers inked and started to 
take the prints, she would move her hand just the slightest 
bit and blur the impression. We tried it four times, 
and each time she ruined the card. Finally the operator 
laid down his roller. 

“Give me your handcuffs, Nick,” he said. 

Protesting, arguing and jerking, availed the woman 
nothing. The Bertillon man snapped the cuffs on her 
wrists. Then, twisting one of them until the chain was 
close up against the wrist, he tried it again. 

“You’ll get your hand twisted off this time if you try 
any more monkey business,” he said. 

She gave in then. We wouldn’t have twisted the 
chain, for even then we weren’t sure, but a whole lot 
of this sort of thing is like any other kind of successful 
enterprise—it is bluff. And the other people in the 
world didn’t know exactly how far we would go to make 
the bluff stick. 

What Prints Showed 

Ten minutes later we had a perfect impression of her 
fingers. Half an hour later we found these same im¬ 
pressions in our card index records—the Bertillon and 


222 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


fingerprint charts culled from all over the United States. 
Then, and then only, did we understand why she had bat¬ 
tled so hard to keep us from finding that card in the 
police files. For the woman who sat before us, the 
woman with the exquisite clothes, the keen eyes, the white 
hair and the manners of a dowager, was no other than 
“Nimble Annie,” the most notorious female safecracker 
in the United States. 

There was a whole lot that that fingerprint record 
told us about this woman. The wife of one of the best 
safecrackers of a quarter of a century before, she had 
led a hectic existence. All that her husband had known 
he had taught her. All that his gang knew became her 
post-graduate degree. Her husband had been killed at 
Quincy, Ill., in a battle between his gang and a posse of 
citizens and police while cracking a bank, and she had 
taken up his work where he had dropped it, to win for 
herself a sensational reputation which he never could 
have enjoyed in his best days. 

“Nimble Annie” was known to every police depart¬ 
ment in the United States. She was wanted for a score 
of jobs, all over the country. Many of them had out¬ 
lawed under different state statutes or the communities 
could not afford to extradite her. Many crimes of rob¬ 
bery and burglary were laid at her door on suspicion. 
She had served time for one affair, and yet her grip on 
her followers was unbroken. In her line she stood 
alone and supreme—the “queen of the safecrackers.” 

I sat down and talked to Annie after I learned who 
she was. She readily admitted her identity then. The 
conversation I had with her, sitting in the matron’s room 
in the jail at Los Angeles, will long remain in my memory, 
Annie was widely read and well educated, and had been 
everywhere. Since she was sixteen she had lived by her 
wits, and they were sharper than the wits of six ordinary 


QUEEN OF THE SAFE CRACKERS 


223 


women. A brilliant conversationalist, an entertaining 
listener and a keen analyst of human nature, it was easy 
to understand how she had eluded trap after trap set 
for her by the best sleuths in the business. 

Psychology 

Listening to her as she talked freely of her record 
and accomplishments in the world of crime, it occurred 
to me that I had a colossal task ahead of me to secure a 
confession from her in the matter of the fur hat. For, 
remember, we had absolutely nothing on her save the 
suspicion that one of the salesgirls in the department store 
had voiced after Annie’s appearance there and the dis¬ 
appearance of the missing article. There seemed only 
one way out—psychology. Would it work? 

“Annie,” I said, “ I am disappointed in you.” 

She studied me carefully. 

“How so, Nick?” she asked. 

“Why,” I said, “here you are—the best safegetter in 
the business, the queen of the profession, a woman to 
whom the ordinary safe is as an open book. You have 
elevated safebreaking into an art. You are the head of 
your business. You have come down to swiping a fur 
hat out of a department store. Why, Annie, you are 
getting old. You are losing your stride. You are becom¬ 
ing a ‘has been’. . . 

I talked to her along that line for some time. She 
sat there silently, listening to me. After a bit her eyes 
filled up and she dropped her head. She knew what I 
was saying was true—she was getting old. 

“Some day you are going to slip, Annie,” I said. 
“You are not as fast in the head as you used to be. This 
job doesn’t amount to much. It is not in your class, and 
you know it. Think of what your former pals are going 
to say when they read in the paper that ‘Nimble Annie,’ 



224 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


the smoothest thing in the safecracking line, has stooped 
to ‘snitching’ stuff out of a department store.” 

Annie began to cry. I knew I had accomplished a 
whole lot to bring tears, for she was not the crying type. 
But I had tapped the mainspring of her long buried 
femininity—the weak spot of the great majority of 
women. She was getting old and she had laid herself 
open to ridicule. And this, to her, as to most women, 
was a tragedy. 

“Nick,” she said after a bit, “ I am going to say some¬ 
thing. You know you are the first detective that has ever 
talked to me like that—shown me any kindness in my 
life, even from the time I was a kid. I think I have 
wanted—just that—more than anything in the world.” 

She sat twisting a handkerchief between her hands, 
a pitiful, crumpled figure of a woman—a woman old 
enough to be my mother, and with an intrinsic fineness in 
her make-up that somehow would, under different envi¬ 
ronment, perhaps, have rendered her fit to be the mother 
of anyone. My sympathy had broken her down. She 
was going to talk. I hitched forward eagerly in my chair, 
fully expecting a confession. 

“Go ahead, Annie,” I said. “You know I want to be 
your friend. This is a hard game, and you know every 
angle of it as well as I do. If there is anything you want 
to say. . . .” 

Annie leaned forward while I held my breath. It was 
a tense moment. Psychology was about to be justified 
and cleverness was due to come into its own. 

“Nick,” she said, “do you know where I can go for 
my rheumatism?” 

It developed afterward that rheumatism was correctly 
the biggest thing in Annie’s life. During the later years 
of her life she had felt it creeping upon her, stiffening 
her fingers—the long, supple, self-trained fingers that 


QUEEN OF THE SAFE CRACKERS 


225 


were her biggest asset. She feared it with her whole 
soul. In the moment of her biggest emotional stress that 
idea came uppermost as the most important: Where 
to go for rheumatism? 

Well, I was game. I had decided to go right through 
with Annie until I won. So I took her question seriously, 
as staggeringly different from what I expected as the 
North from the South Pole. 

“I have a friend at Gillman’s San Jacinto Hot Springs, 
Annie,” I said. “I’ll write him a note. You can go 
there. I’m sure it will do your rheumatism good.” 

That was as far as our interview went. She thanked 
me for my offer, and after several more futile attempts 
to elicit information about the fur hat, I wrote the note 
and left. 


She Pleads Guilty 

“Nimble Annie” surprised us all when she came into 
court charged with the theft of the hat. As a matter of 
fact, we could not have proved the case on her because we 
had been unable to find the hat. What the lawyers call 
the “corpus delicti,” or the essential element of the case, 
was absent. Annie, however, pleaded guilty. The court, 
out of respect for her advanced age—for Annie was 
pretty well along in years then—contented itself with a 
fine, and she was released. 

I found out afterwards that Annie’s plea had been 
based upon my talk with her. She figured that if she 
fought the case it might react on me, for Annie was wise 
enough to know that in the absence of the hat we could 
not convict her. But I had done her a favor. I had 
told her where to go for her rheumatism. In the canons 
of her craft, that represented a favor. She returned the 
favor, according to her standards, by pleading guilty, 


226 WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 

and I got the credit for a conviction. Such is life in the 
police court. 

A few weeks after that my stenographer rushed into 
my private office with her eyes wide with excitement, 
and said that something mysterious had occurred. She 
said a messenger boy had called with a package, asked 
if Mr. Harris was there, and upon receiving an affirma¬ 
tive answer, had thrust the package into her hands and 
fled. She sat holding the package, listening to his re¬ 
ceding footsteps running down the hallway, before it 
dawned on her that I might want to know who he was. 

“What kind of a package?” I asked. 

The girl measured off about a foot in space. 

“About that size!” she said. 

I followed her into the reception room. There on the 
table, sure enough, was a package about a foot square, 
wrapped in ordinary wrapping paper and tied tightly with 
a string. It bore no name or inscription or mark by which 
identification could be established. It looked sinister and 
mysterious. Frankly, it made me nervous. 

A detective, at best, owns to an extensive repertoire 
of enemies. His profession engenders that attitude very 
frequently by persons with whom he does not come 
directly in contact—relatives or friends perhaps of those 
whom he arrests or traps in the course of his business. 
In a way, a detective lives pretty much on a hair trigger— 
or over the crater of an invisible volcano. In its final 
analysis he never knows what minute someone will under¬ 
take to square accounts. 

A Mystery Gift 

So with this mysterious package sitting silently and 
alone on my table top. What did it contain? Carl Warr 
had broken loose just a short time before—the madman 
who walked in the Los Angeles police station with a 


QUEEN OF THE SAFE CRACKERS 


227 


glass bomb which revealed its deadly mechanism, and 
held a metropolitan department in terror for hours be¬ 
fore it could be taken away from him. The first thought 
that entered my head when I saw that package was that 
some one had planned a similar gift for me, in an effort 
to shift my activities into eternity. 

An old police trick occurred to me—one that usually 
renders a bomb useless—namely, to soak it in water. So 
I sent for the janitor and asked him for a tub—one big 
enough to contain the box. He went away with his eyes 
popping out of his head, to return presently with the 
quieting information that he couldn’t find one big enough 
for the purpose. I have always been somewhat of a 
fatalist in my philosophy of life. Perhaps it is because 
of what I have been through in various cases. Most de¬ 
tectives are the same. They take their lives in their hands 
on so many occasions that after awhile, no matter what 
their original beliefs and convictions have been, they grow 
callous to danger and gamble on life as a tangible asset. 
Wherefore, with no means of rendering the “bomb” 
harmless, I took a pocket knife and, while the stenog¬ 
rapher crouched back against the wall with a white face, 
I cut the string and opened the package. 

Of course you have guessed the answer. It was the 
hat—the missing fur hat. Annie had returned it to me 
out of gratitude, I suppose. I returned it to the depart¬ 
ment store without telling how I had obtained it, merely 
saying that it was a “trick of the profession.” Of course, 
I received a lot of unmerited credit for this, the manager 
putting it down to my superlative cleverness and detective 
acumen, and all that sort of thing. 

Days afterward, Annie, herself, called on me, looking 
the picture of health and contentment. We had a very 
interesting talk. I tried to thank her for returning the 


228 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


hat, but she evaded the subject. Finally she switched the 
conversation around to more personal matters. 

“Nick,” she said, “I had a wonderful time at San 
Jacinto Springs. They did me a lot of good. You 
know—” 

She looked out of the window and her face softened. 

“You know, Nick, I did a lot of thinking up there at 
the Springs—about what you said to me—about getting 
old. I came to the conclusion that you were right. I 
am getting old. I can’t get into a safe the way I used 
to. You’ve got to keep in practice to do that, and I’m 
not as agile as I used to be. I’ve decided to quit.” 

“Nimble Annie” quit! That was a new one. I 
expressed my incredulity. She nodded. 

“I am through,” she said. “You know, there comes 
a time in the life of all of us—professionals, I mean— 
when we’ve got to face the fact that we’ve done our 
share.” She smiled with the record of scores of success¬ 
ful safe crackings perhaps flitting through her memory. 
“Now I think I’ll leave it to the younger generation. I’m 
out of jail. I’ve got plenty of money to live on. I might 
slip the next time and go up for twenty years, and that 
would kill me. I’m too old for that now. So I’ve made 
up my mind.” 

A Mine of Information 

We talked for a long time after that—mostly of the 
technicalities of safe robbing. Annie was a mine of infor¬ 
mation. As I have said, she was the queen of them all. 
Men came from all over the country to get her ideas on 
the subject. She was the supreme court of last resort 
when a difficult job loomed. Much of this she told me 
now as a past master of any craft likes to reminisce when 
the active days are over and the creeping shadows of the 
closing years begin to steal upon him. 


QUEEN OF THE SAFE CRACKERS 


229 


“When I was at my best,” she said, “I could open 
any safe that was made—any ordinary office safe—in 
less than five minutes.” 

This astonished me, even though I knew Annie for the 
best in her business. I asked her how that was possible. 

“Well,” she said, “twenty years ago most of the bank 
safes were not secure. They were crude in construction 
and safe cracking had not been developed to the acetylene 
torch age, when an ordinary crome steel vault is butter in 
the hands of the expert. I have cleaned many a safe 
without the bank people knowing that it had even been 
opened. I had to tell them that I had robbed the safe 
to keep them from arresting some innocent cashier 
for embezzlement, so sure were they that their safe had 
not been opened.” 

This opened up a new field of speculation. I found 
myself wondering how often the same thing is still being 
done today and recalled the protestations of innocence of 
cashiers I had seen convicted, whose words carried con¬ 
viction and yet against whom there seemed a clear case. 
Had they been the victims of a clever safe cracker not 
gifted with Annie’s conscience, who had let them serve 
time rather than tell the truth? 

“Most of those old time safes were like your safe 
here,” said Annie, indicating what I had always consid¬ 
ered as a good safe, standing against my office wall. 

“What do you mean?” I asked indignantly. “You 
infer that this is a poor safe. I paid . . .” 

Annie threw back her head and laughed. 

“Sure you did,” she said. “You paid a good price 
for it and you thought you had an impregnable vault. 
That safe of yours is ‘duck soup,’ as we say in the busi¬ 
ness. I could get into it in three minutes. It is so easy it 
is foolish.” 

My surprise must have showed in my face, for Annie 


230 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


seemed to enjoy it hugely. I turned and looked at the 
safe. It was a standard type, heavy, massive, with sev¬ 
eral tumblers, and a jimmy-proof door. I could see noth¬ 
ing but explosive as a possible opener, but I was not 
willing to back my judgment against Annie’s uncanny 
skill. 

“I would like to see you do it—just as a matter of 
education,” I challenged. 

A Demonstration 

Annie’s eyes gleamed. Thorough crackswoman that 
she was, she could not resist the gauntlet. 

“Get me a needle,” she said quietly, pulling off her 
gloves. 

“A needle?” That was a new one. Perhaps “crack¬ 
ers’ ” slang for a “jimmy,” I thought. 

“Yes—your stenographer has one, perhaps.” 

“A common house needle?” I asked. 

“Yes.” 

I walked into the next office, rather dazed, and asked 
Miss Ruth Dean, my secretary, if she had such a thing. 
She did. I returned and handed it to Annie. 

She took it in her long, supple fingers—fingers that 
marked her for a woman of high temperament with 
musical inclinations and marvelous artistic possibilities. 

Then she turned to me. 

“Got a watch?” 

I had. 

“Time me!” 

She knelt before the safe while I stood with the watch 
in my hand, my eye on the minute parker. Annie took 
the stenographer’s needle and clenched it tightly between 
her front teeth holding it by the “eye.” The point she 
pressed tightly against the face of the door, her forehead 


QUEEN OF THE SAFE CRACKERS 


231 



In this manner she slowly twirled the combination! 


close to the safe. In this manner she began to slowly 
twirl the combination. 

In exactly three minutes she threw her head back, 
glanced up at me with a smile, and grasping the handle 
of the safe door, pulled it open. 

“What would you like out of your safe?” she asked. 

I dropped on my chair. Annie stood with her hands 
on her hips, laughing at me. It had been, as she ex¬ 
pressed it, so simple it was foolish. And she had done it 
right before my face without a fumble. 

Then she explained. It seemed that she depended 
entirely upon the sensitized nerves of her teeth for the 
trick. Holding the needle against the door between her 
teeth, she was able to tell by that means the exact instant 
that the major tumbler slid into place. 

























































































































































































232 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


“It registered on the top of my head like the blow of 
a hammer,” she said. “It took me a long time to learn 
that . . 

No wonder they had never caught “Nimble Annie.” 
No wonder the best “strong boxes” in the country, guar¬ 
anteed burglar proof, had been rifled by this woman 
without a trace of the means by which it had been accom¬ 
plished. Knowing the general construction of safes, she 
knew just what to expect—what to wait for. When the 
last tumbler slid into its socket, she had reached the end 
of her effort. It was truly a work of art. 

Annie talked for some time after that, giving me 
many interesting sidelights of her experience in this 
particular. Finally she got down to business. 

“Nick,” she said, “I’ll tell you what I came for. I 
want your protection.” 

Annie had knocked me off my feet several times in the 
last hour. But this was the final blow. 

“Protection—you?” I asked. 

Annie chuckled. 

“Yes—funny, isn’t it? I’ve trained with the worst 
yeggs in the country and handled ’em under every kind 
of a condition. And here I’m asking for protection. Go 
on and laugh—it’s on me this time.” Then she explained. 

Her Protector 

“It’s against department stores,” she said. “I want 
to be able to go shopping without getting pinched. I’m 
going straight now—I’ve retired. I’m a woman of 
wealth. But that goes only where I’m not known. Get 
me? Where the department store dicks know me, they 
watch me. But that isn’t enough. If anything is missing 
in that store while I’m there, they are going to hang it on 
me—just on account of my reputation.” 


QUEEN OF THE SAFE CRACKERS 233 

There was truth in that, as I well knew. Annie would 
be the first to fall under suspicion. 

“Just what do you want me to do?” I asked, slightly 
puzzled by her request. 

“I want a detective to travel around with me and act 
as a bond for my good behavior,” she said. “I don’t 
want to be annoyed by constant arrest. I’ve earned a 
good rest and I want to have it out of jail. That’s all.” 

And that was the closing chapter in the life of 
“Nimble Annie,” the greatest safe cracker this country 
has ever seen. She is living in California today, well 
liked, apparently respectable, and a “widow of means.” 
She has a magnificent home, moves in certain social cir¬ 
cles, and travels in a limousine. But— 

Whenever she steps into a department store or a bank 
to transact business, there is a detective ever at her elbow 
—at her own request—her visible, living guarantee that 
for all time she is through with the profession in which 
she attained such signal honors. And every department 
store “dick” in the country knows and understands her 
human semaphore of virtue—the tangible index of 
“Nimble Annie” reformed! 


THE TRUNK BANDIT 


HERE are many who remember Chandeleau—the 



dreamer, the clever one, the master-mind. Chande¬ 
leau, himself, admitted that he was all of these. He 
planned to be a Napoleon of crime—a Fouche for astute¬ 
ness, a Lecoq for execution. Carefully through the days 
he wrought the fabric of himself upon these patterns. 
When the time was ripe he cast the dice in one big throw. 
How, then, did he fare? A woman tripped his feet—a 
woman he never saw—and Chandeleau, the dreamer be¬ 
came Chandeleau the penitent! 

The story: It begins with a letter—a plain white 
envelope containing a sheet of paper written in a slow, 
painful scrawl. It was the handwriting of some one well 
along in years—a woman. It came in the morning’s mail 
of a certain August day to Wesley Barr, city editor of 
the Los Angeles Evening Herald. It was addressed to 
him, and he ran his pencil under the flap and withdrew it 
from its envelope. 

“If you will go to a hotel in the fashionable Westlake 
district, you will find a man named Chandeleau. When 
you find him you will have the master-mind burglar. I 
am writing this to save some mother’s innocent son.” 

These were the words that stared the city editor in 
the face, words that fairly vibrated with mystery and 
intrigue. The signature was as mysterious as the note. 
It read: “A Friend of Humanity.” Such a note, sent to 
a newspaper, would have sent a ripple of expectation 
down the spine of even the most calloused reporter. 
There were possibilities there. 


THE TRUNK BANDIT 


235 


The newspaperman, however, was an old-timer at the 
game—an old police reporter. Instead of handing the 
letter over to a member of his staff to run down, he sent 
for me. 

“Come over, Nick,” he telephoned. “I’ve got a mys- 
tery for you.” 

Fifteen minutes later I was humped over his desk, 
examining the note, which bore all the marks of genuine¬ 
ness. 

“I figure it this way,” said the newspaperman. “There 
is a chance that this is a movie stunt of some kind gotten 
up by the film gang out in Hollywood. On the other 
hand, it may be the real goods. If the first, I don’t want 
to be a goat for a press agent story, and if the second it’s 
a police matter. In either case I want you in on it. If 
you unravel anything, remember—we get the scoop!” 

He Had a Hunch 

“All right,” I said. “I have a hunch this is genuine.” 

Why I said that I do not know. Some sixth sense, so 
long heralded as an attribute of the detective and news¬ 
paper game seemed to impress us both. Perhaps things 
of that kind throw out their own vibrations that register 
on us—that, too, is a mystery. But often I have seen 
it work out that way—a “hunch” played for all it was 
worth and results. 

With the letter safely tucked away in my files, I de¬ 
tailed a couple of men to comb the fashionable Westlake 
and Wilshire boulevard districts for traces of the man 
mentioned in the communication. It was a tiresome task 
—a detailed, minute, careful system of guarded inquiry. 
The Paris police excel the world in this sort of thing, and 
next in point of efficiency is the American detective. It 
is the most difficult of all routine police inquiry business. 

Such tasks drag interminably, as a usual thing. But 



236 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


in this instance luck was with us. At the fifth place—a 
high-class hotel, the operatives turned up Chandeleau—a 
name scrawled on a register, with an initial C. They 
found that Chandeleau was a man of peculiar habits. He 
‘ came and went at odd hours. When he slept at home or 
where he spent his time no one of his fellow lodgers knew. 

When this was reported to me I became interested. 
I detailed one of my best professional “shadows” to trail 
our man. The “shadow” developed some queer informa¬ 
tion. First oil he discovered that Chandeleau was having 
a peculiar kind of a trunk made in a trunk factory on 
South Main street. The trunk was to have padded in¬ 
sides, with a false top and a small seat. It was so con¬ 
structed that when it was locked on the outside, it could 
still be opened from the inside by means of springs. 

“He says he is going to do a Houdini act on the 
stage,” the trunk man explained to my operatives. “I 
think he is a nut, myself . . .” 

When the operative reported these things to me, we 
put a closer watch on Chandeleau’s movements. A man 
with a trick trunk may be a genuine dramatic sensation. 
But a man with a trick trunk who has been branded a 
master-mind burglar in an anonymous note that has the 
earmarks of genuineness, was quite another matter. 
Wherefore we settled down to the task of keeping Chan¬ 
deleau “covered” day and night. 

Had Another Abode 

It was only a matter of hours before we discovered 
that he had other lodgings than those in the fashionable 
Westlake district. His second abode was in a cheap 
lodging house on South Flower street. The third day of 
the “watch,” with my man at his heels, he climbed the 
stairs to this room, inserted a key in the door and went 
inside. There he remained for several hours, apparently 


THE TRUNK BANDIT 


237 


pouring over blueprints or drawings. During that inter¬ 
val the operative learned from the landlord that Chande- 
leau had rented the room there recently but had never 
occupied the bed. The mystery, as fiction writers have it, 
was deepening. 

Recapitulating what we had learned in the brief time 
we had been at work on the case, it seemed that Chande- 
leau w r as probably conducting some kind of a rendezvous 
where crimes were planned. We figured that probably 
this Flower street lodging house was his working head¬ 
quarters from which he could operate without attracting 
the suspicion that would develop in the more exclusive 
Westlake apartment house. 

With this in mind, we rented the room adjoining that 
occupied by Chandeleau in the lodging house, and in¬ 
stalled one of the operatives there with a dictograph. 
Right here let it be said that the dictograph is all that is 
claimed for it and an invaluable asset in crime detection, 
notwithstanding the prejudice that still exists in many 
courts against it. In the hands of competent operatives, 
it is just as sure and accurate as the lens of a camera. 

The dictograph we used was installed behind a picture 
in Chandeleau’s room—a highly colored lithograph of a 
woodland scene. The wires were led to a pair of sensi¬ 
tive receivers in the operative’s room. From that mo¬ 
ment onward, every move that Chandeleau made, every 
word that he said, almost every breath that he drew, was 
heard by the operative in the next room as clearly and 
distinctly as though he stood by Chandeleau’s elbow. 

From a purely detective point of view we had our 
man “sewed up in a sack.” When he moved afield, a 
“shadow” was ever at his heels. When he wrought in 
the seclusion of his room, a tiny ear listened to his every 
movement from behind the woodland scene. As the 
operative facetiously expressed it, we could “hear him 


238 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


change his mind.” With the stage all set, we awaited 
developments. 

The day following the installation of the dictograph, 
Chandeleau scraped up an acquaintance with a young 
fellow whom he met in Westlake park. The chap was a 
boy about nineteen years of age, tall, sallow, bearing the 
earmarks of recent illness, and dressed in a shabby, faded 
khaki uniform. What conversation took place between 
them I do not know. The operative had to keep a dis¬ 
tance to escape observation, but he could see that Chan¬ 
deleau was talking earnestly and the boy was listening 
intently. 

After a bit they walked toward Chandeleau’s room 
on Flower street together. Chandeleau led the way up¬ 
stairs, and unlocking the door, bade the boy make himself 
comfortable. A bottle of whiskey produced from a 
closed shelf and a package of cigarettes completed the 
hospitality. Chandeleau’s affiliation with the boy became 
apparent to the listening operative in the next room. 

A “$20,000 Scheme” 

“I’ll put you next to a scheme to make $20,000,” said 
Chandeleau. “That is, provided you are game to take 
a few chances.” 

There was silence after that and the clink of glasses. 

“All right,” said the boy. “I need the coin. Shoot.” 

And Chandeleau shot. In a few concise sentences, 
and without the usual reservation of statement that char¬ 
acterizes a crook he laid bare the most remarkable plan 
of looting a safe deposit vault of its contents that has 
ever come under my personal attention. The plan, as he 
explained it, was briefly this: 

Chandeleau had been with the intelligence service on 
the Belgian border, he said, while serving with the Ca¬ 
nadian army. There he had worked out a plan of cross- 


THE TRUNK BANDIT 


239 


ing the border, locked in a packing case. During the 
night he would escape from the case, which was a trick 
affair, collect such information as he desired, re-enter the 
case and then, with the assistance of a confederate on 
the German side of the lines, return in the packing case 
to the Canadian troops. 

It was this scheme which Chandeleau now proposed 
using in the robbery of a bank. It was a plan that called 
for the aid of a confederate. Sitting in the back room 
of that unpretentious lodging house, he outlined in exact 
detail how the thing could be done. The trunk was being 
made. The bank had been picked. All he needed was 
an assistant who would obey orders. The rest would be 
easy, so he figured. 

“I advertised for an assistant,” he said. “I put in 
an ad for a man to rough it who would take a chance. 
No one has answered. If you are game. . . 

He left the sentence unfinished. The boy thought it 
over. Chandeleau had emphasized the perfection of the 
scheme, the ease with which it could be worked, the im¬ 
possibility of detection. The stakes he held out were 
alluring—“$30,000, or maybe more,” he had said. The 
lad had a chin that slanted easily into his collar. There 
was no virile stamina mirrored in his face. At the con¬ 
clusion, he consented, asking what his part would be. 

“It’s this,” said Chandeleau. “We’ll have two trunks 
put in the bank vault. We will put one in first. Later 
the second one will go in. I will be in the second one. I 
will have with me everything that I will need for the job. 
There will be a watch with an illuminated dial, gloves to 
keep from leaving finger prints, woolen socks to muffle 
the sound of my feet, all the tools I need, electric flash¬ 
lights, and enough food and water to last a couple of 
days. I have worked five years on this trunk. . . .” 



240 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


The operator heard the boy give an exclamation of 
admiration. Chandeleau continued: 

“After the trunk is put in the vault,” he said, “I’ll 
wait until it is night. Then I’ll slip out through a secret 
door, loot the suitcases and packages in the vault. I’ll 
cut the ends out of the parcels and after I have cleaned 
them I will put them back just as they were. The rob¬ 
bery will not be noticed for several days, perhaps weeks. 
Then I will load both trunks with the stuff and the next 
day you can come and get the trunk I am in out of stor¬ 
age. Later we will get the second—” 

“How much do you. . . ?” asked the boy. 

“I figure we can clean up $30,000—maybe $50,000— 
that way.” 

There was a long silence. After a bit the boy spoke, 
and his voice was a bit unsteady. 

“All right,” he said. “I’m in on it. What’s my 
share ?” 


Fifty-Fifty Split 

“Fifty-fifty,” said Chandeleau. 

There was a clink of glasses and the bargain was 
sealed. 

There was more conversation after that, but mostly 
of a desultory character. They left the room shortly 
after that, after arranging to meet the next day, when, 
Chandeleau said, he thought the trunk would be ready 
for the “trick” which was to mark a new epoch in criminal 
achievement. 

With the dictograph operative’s report in my pocket 
I called on two of the directors of the bank mentioned 
by Chandeleau and laid the case before them. At first 
they were frankly amazed and incredulous. Then as I 
explained the workings of the contemplated plan as out¬ 
lined by this master criminal, their eyes opened in aston- 


THE TRUNK BANDIT 


241 


ishment. They were inclined to doubt the amount of loot 
which Chandeleau expected to obtain, but on sober re¬ 
flection came to the conclusion that a robbery of the vault 
would probably run into even higher figures. 

The vice-president was the most perturbed. He fore¬ 
saw the effect on the bank’s clients when it became known 
that the bank’s sacred vaults had been robbed in such a 
simple manner. 

“It would cause endless confusion,” he said. 

At that time we were facing one dilemma. We had 
nothing actually on Chandeleau for which we could ar¬ 
rest him. The law requires, in a case of this kind, some 
overt act. If we stepped in and took him into custody 
we had no crime with which we could charge him and be 
reasonably sure of a conviction. The most we could ac¬ 
complish would be to scare him into some other jurisdic¬ 
tion where he would undoubtedly carry out his intentions 
with greater care. 

Let Him Go Ahead 

Under the law, which required the establishment of 
an overt act, we were kept from halting him in his plans. 
It seemed better to let him go ahead until we were sure 
of his intentions, and I expressed this belief. The bank 
directors finally consented and I was authorized to pro¬ 
ceed according to my best judgment and to keep them 
informed of the progress of the investigation. 

The city editor of the Los Angeles paper was con¬ 
stantly on my neck during those days, anxious for a 
“scoop.” Every day he called me on the telephone and 
asked me if the story was “ripe,” and each day in fear 
of his restlessness, I told him to wait. 

“I’ll nail your skin on a fence, Nick,” he said to me 
finally, “if you let that leak into a river journal.” 

I promised faithfully to let him have the “edge” 


on 


242 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


the yarn when it broke, inasmuch as he had tipped me 
off in the first place, and told him how matters stood. 
He was enthusiastic. 

“Either you are the biggest liar this side of the Rio 
Grande,” he said, “or this is a whale of a yarn.” 

As it turned out subsequently, it was a “whale of a 
yarn.” 

It was the second afternoon after that—about 3 :45 
o’clock, to be exact—that the dictograph operator called 
me on the telephone we had had installed in his room in 
the Flower street lodging house, and repeated a conver¬ 
sation he had just heard between Chandeleau and the boy 
in which Chandeleau said that he had found that he could 
not get the money together to have two trunks made and 
he thought that they had better make an experimental 
test with one trunk on some other place. He said he had 
decided to try out the plan on the storage room of the 
Hollywood Fireproof Storage Company. 

With this information at hand I redoubled my pre¬ 
cautions in the trailing of Chandeleau. It developed that 
he had selected that place because he happened to know 
that many of the movie people at Hollywood had placed 
their valuables in this company’s vault owing to an epi¬ 
demic of movie home burglaries. Burglars had “touched 
off” Tom Mix, Charlie Murray and Roscoe (Fatty) 
Arbuckle’s homes, and most of the other stars had taken 
their valuables to the Hollywood vaults for safety. His 
clean up here would have amounted to $100,000, it was 
afterwards estimated. 

The boy went to the Hollywood warehouse the next 
morning, pursuant to Chandeleau’s instructions, and de¬ 
posited a small package about the size of a cigar box. 
He told the deposit clerk that he would send a trunk the 
next day in which he had a lot of valuable ore samples, 
and asked him to take good care of it. The clerk prom- 


THE TRUNK BANDIT 


243 


ised that he would. After the boy left, I got in touch 
with the vice-president and general manager of the stor¬ 
age company and asked him to come to my office. 

Manager Informed 

I shall never forget the astonished look on his face 
when I explained what was in course of preparation with 
his concern as the intended victim. He was more than 
amazed. He assured me instantly of every cooperation. 
Of course we were considerably in the dark at that time 
as to Chandeleau’s exact intentions. We did not know, 
for one thing, just when he had intended to send the trunk 
to the warehouse. The hours that followed were tense 
ones, fraught with a strain such as I have hardly ever 
felt on any other case. 

Fate, however, was good to us. The following after¬ 
noon the operative who was on watch at the Flower street 
lodging house, telephoned to me that the trunk had ar¬ 
rived at Chandeleau’s room and Chandeleau, himself, 
from the sounds heard over the dictophone, was in the act 
of getting into the trunk for the trip to the warehouse. 
The time for action had arrived at last, and we jumped 
to the task with our nerves tingling with excitement. 

Detective Sergeant Herman Cline and his partner, 
Detective E. R. Cato, of the police department, whom I 
had apprised before of the situation, rushed to my office 
in response to a telephone message, in the police machine. 
I also notified the city editor, and he detailed his “star” 
police reporter, and a camera man to accompany him. 
We made quite a party as we climbed into the police car 
and hurried to the Flower street lodging house. William 
G. Hanson, my general manager, accompanied me. 

The driver of the machine had his instructions. He 
cruised to the corner of the block in which the lodging 
house was located and crossed the street slowly. Peering 


244 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


from the rear seats we could see an expressman in the 
act of loading a trunk aboard. A tall thin youth in faded 
khaki was aiding him. A half a block down the street 
I saw one of my operatives busily engaged in adjusting 
the bridle of a fruit peddler’s horse, his eye on the ex¬ 
press wagon. 

The youth got up on the seat and rode with the driver. 
The vehicle started off in the direction of the Hollywood 
Fireproof Storage Company’s warehouse, with the police 
machine trailing judiciously in the rear. Ordinarily we 
would have gone directly to the warehouse and awaited 
the arrival of the express wagon, thereby obviating the 
possibility of the boy or the expressman finding out that 
the trunk was being watched. But we did not trust 
Chandeleau. We were not quite sure that the warehouse 
was his objective. 

We might have eliminated our slow, guarded cruise 
to that point, however, for the vehicle, without any at¬ 
tempt at concealment, proceeded directly to the ware¬ 
house. We watched the unloading of the trunk from a 
distance, closing in only when the boy, the driver and the 
trunk disappeared indoors. Then we alighted from the 
machine and walked up to the door of the storage com¬ 
pany’s plant. 

The two detectives stood up against the building, en¬ 
gaged in what appeared to be casual conversation. 
The newspaperman and his cameraman crossed the 
street, passed the storage warehouse, again crossed 
the street and came toward us. I met them directly in 
front of the door. We shook hands and stood talking 
as though the meeting was accidental. While we were so 
engaged, the boy and the driver emerged from the place. 

Surrounded 

The trunk had been delivered and placed in the stor- 


THE TRUNK BANDIT 


245 


age vault. The boy was putting the receipt into his 
pocket as the newspaperman and I stepped up to him. 
Cline and Hanson stepped in behind. In less than a sec¬ 
ond, so carefully had we rehearsed the thing, the 
boy and the driver were completely surrounded. Some¬ 
thing of this thought must have registered on the lad’s 
brain, for I saw the color leave his face. 

“What’s your name?” asked Cline, without any pre¬ 
liminary. 

The boy hesitated. Then something he saw in our 
faces telegraphed to him that he had better answer the 
question. 

“Earl Wilson,” he said, shortly. 

“What’s in the trunk?” asked Cline. 

“What’s that to you?” asked the boy with sudden 
heat. 

Cline pulled back his coat and disclosed the police 
badge. 

“What’s in the trunk?” he repeated. 

The boy’s gaze wavered. 

“Clothes . . .” he evaded. 

Cline laid his hand on his arm kindly. 

“Look here, Wilson,” he said, “this isn’t going to do 
you any good. You told the warehouse people you had 
ore samples in that trunk, didn’t you?” 

The boy licked his lips and his eyes ran around the 
party. Every one was watching him curiously, alert for 
a possible movement to draw a weapon. Cato, who 
stood directly behind him, had his hands swinging free, 
ready to catch the other’s wrist if need be. The driver’s 
face was a study in slow amazement. 

“Yes, I guess I did,” said the boy. 

We waited silently—the hardest form of the third 
degree known for the criminal. The lad shifted and the 


246 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


perspiration stood on his forehead in beads. Finally I 
broke the silence. 

“How long are you going to leave Charlie in that 
trunk?” I asked quietly. 

The boy swung startled, frightened eyes on me. 
Then, with a sudden convulsive movement that indicated 
complete surrender, he buried his face in his hands and 
began to sob. 

“My God!” he exclaimed, “I knew something would 
happen! I knew something would happen 

Felt Sorry for Him 

We all felt sincerely sorry for him at that moment. 
He was a sick boy—ill, out of work, “down and out” in 
the sense that many of us have been at one time or anoth¬ 
er. Chandeleau was a smooth talker, and he had held 
out big stakes—easy stakes—at a time when the lad’s 
resisting power was at its lowest ebb. It was too bad, 
but that is the cold-blooded part of the law, and of life, 
for that matter. It was, after all, his problem, and we 
had to go through with it, even if we did feel sorry for 
him. 

“Come on, lad,” said Cline. “Let’s have it all.” 

And he told us, standing there on the sidewalk in 
front of the Hollywood warehouse—the whole plan, 
as we already knew it through the merciless medium of 
the little dictophone behind that cheap, highly colored 
woodland scene in Chandeleau’s room—told us in a voice 
that broke, with a face that suddenly aged with the weight 
of what he now realized was his overwhelming part in 
the whole affair. 

“I guess it wasn’t cut out for me to be a successful 
burglar,” he said. “It all looked so wonderful at the 
start . . .” 



THE TRUNK BANDIT 


247 


After we had finished, Cline stood looking at him 
for a moment. 

“All right,” he said. “That will be all now. Now 
we’ll go and break the news to Charlie.” 

Taking the lad with us, we entered the storage plant, 
where we found the manager waiting for us in a fever 
of anxiety. 

“The trunk’s here!” he announced excitedly. 

“You bet it is,” I replied. “So is the man who 
brought it and the man who came with it.” 

With the manager in the lead, we proceeded to the 
storage vault. At a signal from Cline we tiptoed in 
quietly. The trunk was sitting on end in the room, with 
other stuff piled all around it. In appearance it looked 
like any ordinary trunk, save that it seemed newer than 
the others. Cline walked over to it while the rest of 
us grouped around it. The cameraman set up his tri¬ 
pod and focused his box. 

There was something uncanny about the whole 
thing—this search for the body of a living man. Stand¬ 
ing beside the trunk, it seemed hardly credible that a man 
could squeeze himself into such a small space. Even 
Cline, old-timer that he was in the police game, was im¬ 
pressed. He whispered to me: 

“Nick,” he said, “I’ve handled many a job in my 
time, but this is the most unbelievable thing I ever tack¬ 
led.” 

With these words he stepped forward and rapped 
sharply on the trunk. 

“Come on, Mr. Man,” he called. “Open up.” 

There was only the echo of his voice in the closely 
packed room. We waited tensely for a sign from Chan- 
deleau. Would he answer the summons with a volley 
from a concealed weapon? Was he even now peering 
at us through some keyhole, over the sight of a revol- 



248 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


ver? Or was he dead? The boy, Wilson, leaned for¬ 
ward, his face ghastly in the dim glow of the incandes¬ 
cent lights that swung from the ceiling. It was the latter 
thought that was affecting him. 

“Come on, Charlie,” I called. “The party’s all over. 

Show us how you are going to pull the Houdini 
stuff.” 

Still there was no sound from within the trunk. We 
looked at each other and then at the boy. His eyes 
seemed ready to pop from his head. Finally Cline turned 
back to the trunk. 

“Open up that trunk, Chandeleau,” he commanded, 
“or we’ll chop it to pieces!” 

Trunk Opens 

With the words there came a movement, audible, 
from within. Something clicked. There was a slight 
grating, and then before our eyes a small door in the 
top of the trunk, now facing upright, swung back, and 
through it emerged the head and shoulders of Chande¬ 
leau, the trunk bandit. 

What he might have said or done is speculative. 
What he had in his mind at that instant we shall never 
know. For at the moment his head emerged from the 
trunk, the cameraman, whom we had forgotten and who 
was watching the scene with cool, alert eyes, caught the 
picture he most wanted—that of Chandeleau emerging 
from the trunk. In that second he pulled the trigger 
of the flash gun. 

“ZOOM!” 

The gun roared in that narrow enclosure with a 
concussion like dynamite. For the barest fraction of 
a second the whole scene blazed with a weird blue light, 
and then went out. Chandeleau squeaked like a startled 
rat, and ducked back into the trunk. In his terror—his 


THE TRUNK BANDIT 


249 



possible belief that we were shooting at him—he must 
have touched a concealed spring. The next moment 
there was a clicking sound, and the trunk fell all apart— 
collapsed like the One Horse Shay—leaving Chande- 
leau, the master burglar, huddled amid the wreckage. 

Cline leaned forward and pulled him out—up to his 
feet, where for the first time we got a good look at him. 
He w r as in his undershirt, with his suspenders around his 
neck. From head to foot he was bathed in perspiration 
from the close confinement of his narrow quarters. His 
jaw sagged in abject terror and amazement, and he was 
shaking all over like a man with the ague. He looked 
more like a terrified animal at bay than any sight I have 
ever witnessed. 











































































































































































































250 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


“H-How did you . . . know I was here?” he 

asked. 

Cline told him—shortly, succinctly, in a few words. 
Chandeleau kept shaking his head, as though the whole 
revelation of his presence was a mystery to him. 

“Why didn’t you let me go through with it . . . ?” 
he said. “It’s a shame to spoil the scheme. Why 
couldn’t you have waited ... ?” 

And that was the keynote of the whole affair. It 
was not so much the money, the loot, with Chandeleau, 
as the perfection of his artistic scheme and the carrying 
out of its details. He had planned on a master stroke— 
one that would make him the premier of burglars. And 
we had ruined it all before he had a chance to prove out 
his theories. Personally, I do not think he would have 
minded being caught at all if only we had let him complete 
the robbery and justify the cleverness of the scheme he 
had so carefully worked out. 



The contents of the trunk. 






































































THE TRUNK BANDIT 


251 


That is about all there is to the episode. Chandeleau 
was held to answer, together with Wilson. The day be¬ 
fore they were to have been tried, in the superior court, 
the boy Wilson died from a hemorrhage of the brain, 
superinduced by his illness and the excitement under 
which he had been for the previous weeks. I think 
everyone was glad his part of the affair ended that way. 
He was the victim, as the weak elements of his life must 
always be the victims, of the stronger. Perhaps death 
worked out a better solution of his problem than the law. 

And the letter? We never found out who wrote 
that. That was the one angle of the case never cleared 
up. I have often wondered 


I 


THE NATIONAL SWINDLE 

P T. BARNUM, showman, circus impresario and 
• student of human character, once remarked that 
time was marked by the birth of “suckers.” Only Bar- 
num expressed it differently. What he meant was that 
“rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief,” as well as care¬ 
fully scheduled financier, all have a vulnerable spot— 
wine, women, wireless, rubber plantations and romance, 
all IT in turn. I expressed something of this to the stern 
visaged man across the table from me. 

“Bosh,” he snapped. “The day of that stuff is 
past. We are too well informed now. The gold brick 
man is starving to death.” 

It was a hot summer day—a time for confidences, cool 
drinks, white suits, a balcony overhanging the sea and 
mermaids splashing in the sapphire distances. Instead 
we sat in an office in a Los Angeles skyscraper and talked. 
The fault lay with Justin H. Richardson, banker, who 
had curtailed my golf by a hurried and unexpected visit. 

I wondered. Justin H. Richardson did not come 
abroad without reason. What was in the wind? 

“I asked if you thought a financier could be victimized 
by a government,” he went on, “because it leads to some¬ 
thing.” 

He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a sheaf of 
letters which he spread out on the table. I sat silent. 
Knowing Richardson intimately, I understood thoroughly 
that he wanted to do the talking and in his own way. 

“Nick,” he said after a bit, “we have been acquaint¬ 
ed for a number of years and I have grown to trust you 


THE NATIONAL SWINDLE 


253 


—more than one man usually trusts another—especial¬ 
ly a man in my position. I am going to entrust you with 
a secret that I would not want even my closest associate 
to know. Furthermore, I want it understood at the very 
beginning that I am not going into this matter for the 
reward I shall receive, but because I have been touched 
by the appeal of a helpless fragment of humanity in 
distress.” 

He paused and the stern lines of his face relaxed 
for a moment and the softer side of the man which to 
the world was strange and alien, showed through the 
crust of business for an instant. My surprise must have 
shown in my face, for he smiled. 

“Sounds like I am getting into my second childhood, 
doesn’t it?” he remarked. 

“It sounds as though you had been misjudged,” I par¬ 
ried. 

Justin Richardson sat back in his chair and stared 
at the papers on the table. Then, with a gesture of de¬ 
cision, he thrust them across the table to me. 

“Read them first,” he said. “Afterward I’ll tell you 
what is on my mind.” 

I picked up the papers and scanned them—a letter, 
a whole twelve pages of letters, written in a precise for¬ 
eign hand, a newspaper clipping. * * * I opened 

the letter. It was headed, “Madrid, Spain,” and a date 
not very remote. The words caught me, intrigued me by 
their simplicity: 

“Madrid, 19th, 8-2. 

“Dear Sir:—With great pleasure I have received 
your cablegram, for which I thank you, and I pass to 
explain you my circumstances as briefly as possible. 

“Before all I must say to you, as you will hereinafter 
see, that the person aiding us in the matter is a gaoler 
of the prison who is a nice man at all whose confidence 


254 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


I have obtained. Fearing that my first letter should not 
have reached you for any reason I took the precaution 
of not signing my name and I said you to cable to a 
brother-in-law of such a gaoler, but being now myself 
sure that you can receive any letter I can say you all 
trusting on your honesty. The matter is the following: 

“I was trading as a banker at the Canary islands 
(Spanish Dominions), and after some unfortunate spec¬ 
ulations which take too long to explain I was about to 
be arrested for fraudulent bankruptcy when I resolved 
to fly away for shelter to another country. 

“In fact, I realized all my credits converting same 
into ready money for avoiding future suspects, obtain¬ 
ing in such a way ($300,000) in 300 bank notes of 
$1,000 each, which amount was placed by me in a double 
bottom trunk made for the purpose, and immediately 
after accompanied by my daughter, sixteen years old, I 
departed to France, with the contrivance, of residing 
there. I was obliged to take passage in the first steamer 
that was unluckily sailing for Spain. Safely landed at 
Barcelona, from whence the same day continued to travel 
to France in the first train, sending my trunk directly to 
a French railway station for recovering same after my 
establishment in France; unfortunately arrested by the 
Spanish police that was informed about my flight. 

“I carried with me in the train two hand valises, 
one of which is constructed with a secret pocket per¬ 
fectly dissembled, placing myself in such a pocket a check 
for pounds 3,600 ($18,000), payable to the bearer on 
sight at London, and also I had the nice idea of placing 
in the same secret pocket of such valise, together with 
the check, the receipt delivered to me at Barcelona for 
my trunk sent to France. 

“When my arrestation took place my hand valises 
were secured and arrested, being myself present, but the 


THE NATIONAL SWINDLE 


255 


secret pocket was not discovered, and afterward was 
sealed. As I said I had no other baggages, not finding 
on me the receipt for the aforesaid trunk, this trunk has 
continued safely to France, where it is at the warehouse 
of the railway station awaiting to be delivered to the 
bearer of the proper receipt. According to Spanish laws 
where natives of the Spanish colonies are arrested in 
Spain must be carried to the capital of the kingdom for 
judgment, and for such reason I have been carried to 
Madrid. My trial has just finished, having the Turi giv¬ 
en me a soft verdict sentencing me to three years’ im¬ 
prisonment, to pay a fine of 13,000 pesetas and to pay 
also the cost of the trial. In the sentence also is stated 
that if within fifteen days from date of same is not able 
for me to pay the fine and costs of my said trial, accord¬ 
ing to Spanish law regulations, all my belongings must 
be sold by public auction, being amongst the objects con¬ 
tained in my hand valises some jewels that belong to my 
late wife and estimated with a value of 7,500 pesetas. 

“It is therefore absolutely necessary for me that I 
may recover my valises before the term fixed, as other¬ 
wise the bidders by too frequent examination might by 
chance hit on the secret, and then the authorities would 
enter into possession of the receipt and the check being 
lost for me, if such should be the case. 

“Under the circumstances, being myself at prison 
and without money, I beg of you to come here to leave 
free my baggages in order that you may hold the afore¬ 
said receipt of my trunk and also the check, saving 
such a way my fortune and with a part of which my 
creditors and paying them something would not be very 
difficult for me obtain a commutation of my sentence. 
I beg you to do so chiefly in behalf of my poor daugh¬ 
ter, who since my arrestation was placed into a state 
orphanage on the outskirts of Toledo. Doing so will be 


256 WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 

saved and secured the future of my innocent and darling 
daughter. 

“Your name has been known to me as follows: Same 
has been given to me by a gentleman subject of your coun¬ 
try, who is arrested in this prison. I don’t know his 
real name, being he registered under a false one because 
he does not wish that his family may never know his im¬ 
prisonment. When you may be here easily you may 
have an occasion of seeing him at the same time that 
you may visit me. He has told me that you and him have 
had old acquaintances. 

“Doubtless you will be surprised about the confidence 
I place on you, but if you take into consideration my 
actual position you will see that I must trust in someone 
and being myself satisfied with what I have heard about 
you, I risk everything and place myself in your hands. I 
have no relatives and I am not trusting any of my 
old friends at the Canary Islands because knowing 
my actual position I could expect nothing from them 
but treachery and deceit. I have no one in Madrid, 
having never been here before, and besides I would 
not trust a countryman, as he might denounce me to the 
authorities. I trust entirely in your honesty and in your 
absolute discretion, begging God to make you understand 
my critical position and that you can save me. 

“I am happy to tell you, however, that I have ob¬ 
tained the confidence of a gaoler of the prison, who is 
precisely born at the Canary Islands, and thanks to him 
I am writing freely to you. Before writing to you I of¬ 
fered said gaoler $5000 (without discovering to him 
my secret) if from the warehouse of the prison where 
my valises are kept he would get me some family pa¬ 
pers required for me obtaining money, but he refused, 
saying that he would have to break the rules to do so, 
which would cause him to be perhaps, imprisoned and to 


THE NATIONAL SWINDLE 


257 


lose his situation. If he had accepted I would have 
sent my daughter with the receipt to recover the trunk 
reached to France and all would have been saved. 

“Such a thing not being possible and not having my¬ 
self the amount wanted for recovering the valises again 
approached the gaoler, who for not losing the $5,000 of¬ 
fered has promised me the following, viz., that if some¬ 
one of my friends come and pay the expenses he would 
agree to do as I asked him, but under the sole and abso¬ 
lute condition that said expenses should be paid as soon 
as he delivers the papers, because in such a way the seiz¬ 
ure can be left free the same day and nobody would 
know anything about the breakage of the seals. 

“Under such a condition I beg of you to come and 
help me. You will have to pay no money until the rail¬ 
way receipt for the trunk and also the check may be in 
your hands. When I may inform the gaoler that you 
are coming to pay the expenses for leaving free the seiz¬ 
ure and to help me, he will go to the warehouse of the 
prison where my valises are kept and acting under my 
instructions he will find the secret pocket and will de¬ 
liver you the papers under an envelope containing name. 
Please immediately open said envelope, noting numbers 
and particulars of both the railway receipts belonging 
to the trunk and of the check as I don’t exactly remem¬ 
ber said, and for your personal satisfaction you may 
wire the station master of the French railway station 
where my trunk is stored, asking him if there is deposit¬ 
ed a trunk under the number and particulars of said re¬ 
ceipt. At the same time please wire also the Bank of 
London asking whether check for 3600 pounds (under 
the number of the check) is payable to bearer at sight, 
begging both instances an immediate reply to your name 
at the hotel where you shall lodge. On receipt of the 
answers, that surely will reach you a few hours after- 


258 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


wards and that indeed will satisfy you, the gaoler will 
definitely deliver to you the envelope and contents and 
you at your turn will deliver him the amount necessary 
for leaving free the seizure. 

“You will then immediately depart with my daugh¬ 
ter to recover the trunk and to cash the check, keep¬ 
ing yourself for you the third part, that is to say, dollars 
to 6000 together with your expenses, and afterward 
you will have the kindness of going with my daughter 
to a bank I shall appoint you, where you will turn in her 
name an iron box in order that she may place within 
same the remainder excepted the $5000 for the gaoler 
that she must carry with her. 

“However, I will explain all this later on your ar¬ 
rival here, as I shall be able to obtain an order from 
the judge to permit you to visit me in the visitors’ gallery 
and in our interview you may satisfy yourself about ev¬ 
erything. You will observe that I do not say in this 
letter the place where my trunk is deposited, but you 
will clearly understand the reason of doing so. Of course 
you will know everything when you shall be here. 

“I send you enclosed a cutting of a newspaper of 
this city relative to my arrestation, together with an of¬ 
ficial copy of my sentence, both translated hereinafter 
into English, and also the official receipt of my valises 
kept under seizure. When coming, please bring with 
you these papers, being same required for taking out 
my baggage. In the sentence you will see that the ex¬ 
penses are 1897 pesetas, 40 centimes for the lawsuit 
and 13,000 pesetas for the fine, which altogether makes 
a total amount of 14,987 pesetas and 40 centimes ($3,000 
in u. s. money), being such the amount which must be 
paid for taking out my baggage; that is to say, recovering 
safely the railway receipt and the check. 

“You will also note that the sentence being dated 


THE NATIONAL SWINDLE 


259 



TaI6n num. SMpor valor to pts. ^ ctai$. 


-f- 


Por orden del Tribunal de la Sala —, con esta fecha se ha hecho finne el embargo pre- 
ventivo dek>8 bienes anolados al dorsopeptenecienles 

.. .«*l, .. , r mi 

cuyos bienes podrdn ser retirados tnedianle el pago de 

• A / ^ / /-> . . ^ . . ^ 



Esta DepositaHa ateniendose d lo ordenado porel Tribunal, expide el presente resguardo d 

favor de ... 

previnidndole que si para el dia & de _ T . de .Za... no ha 

salisfecho . 

esta Depostiaria venderd en Publica Subastatodos los objetos que le han sido embargados. 

Madrid £.&.... de .. de 

El Depositaries 





on the 24th of June, 1920, the 150 days expire on the 
24th November, 1920. I cannot tell you to write di¬ 
rectly to me because I fear that your letter may be inter¬ 
cepted, being our secret discovered if such be the case. 
For such reason it will be best to cable according to the 
directions which I gave you. Now you know the extent 
of my misfortunes and tribulations and you may under¬ 
stand why I cannot trust myself to more than one person, 
as it would be dangerous for me. So please take every¬ 
thing into consideration, resolve quickly and energetical¬ 
ly and get ready to come as soon as possible. Trusting 
so I can assure you that my gratefulness will recompense 
your services to which will be added the everlasting grati- 























260 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


tude of my dear daughter and greatly contributing to 
her happiness.” 

This was the letter—a curious document if ever there 
was one yet teeming with dramatic interest. I turned 
back to the opening sentence. 

“To what cablegram does he refer?” I asked. 

Justin Richardson shook his head. 

“That is the puzzling part of the affair,” he said. 
“I have sent him no cablegram—never heard of the 
man in fact, until this came. But that means nothing. 
Either he has mistaken me for someone else or the tele¬ 
graph company has mixed up addresses. In any event, 
he has aroused my interest. Read the rest of that stuff.” 

While the banker lighted a fresh cigar and slid down 
in his chair, I unfolded a clipping in Spanish to which a 
translation had been attached. The translation was in 
the same fine script and was headed: “The Arresta- 
tion of a Banker!” The context followed: 

“Some time ago the police was informed that bank¬ 
er of the Canary Islands named Roberto de Silva flight¬ 
ed away, leaving debts amounting to about 2,000,000 
pesetas. The necessary orders were given to watch 
over the frontier, and yesterday at the express train of 
the morning was Roberto de Silva recognized and arrest¬ 
ed, accompanied by a daughter of him, pretty girl fifteen 
years old, just at the moment of entering into France. 

“Both the banker and his daughter were carried to 
the police offices and afterward placed in the presence of 
the local judge, who ordered with regard to the daugh¬ 
ter the immediate liberty and with regard to the banker 
to be put under imprisonment and the separation was an 
act of great emotion between them. 

“The banker carried with him two hand valises that 
were seized and searched, not finding in same any amount, 


THE NATIONAL SWINDLE 


261 


although it was known that when he eloped from the 
Canary Islands he carried an important amount. 

“Being the Canary Islands a Spanish domain and or¬ 
dering laws regulations that native of same when arrested 
in Spain ought to be judged by the law courts of the capi¬ 
tal of the kingdom. The lawsuit against Roberto de 
Silva will take place at Madrid.” 

“Not much of an English student,” I.remarked. 

Richardson chuckled. 

“But he gets his meaning over, just the same,” he 
replied. “Go on—there’s more of it.” 

Attached to the newspaper clipping was a translation 
of the sentence imposed upon the unfortunate “Roberto 
de Silva” by the Madrid court. This read: 

“The tribunal composed of, etc., etc. Applying to the 
articles 411, 412 and 507 of the penal code, etc., etc. 
We must condemn and we order Roberto de Silva, ex¬ 
banker, 48 year old widower, born at Santa brue de 
benerife (Canary Islands) to the penalty of three years 
imprisonment and to pay a fine of 13,000 pesetas owing 
to a bankruptcy made by him at Buenerife on the date of 
15th March, 1920, amounting to about 2,000,000 of 
pesetas. 

“We must condemn him also to pay the court and the 
costs of the proceedings amounting to 1987 pesetas and 
40 centimes, which together with the 13,000 pesetas of 
the fine make a total amount of 14,987 pesetas 40 cen¬ 
times (fourteen thousand and nine hundred and eighty- 
seven pesetas with forty centimes). And if in the in¬ 
stallment of 150 days counting from the date of this 
sentence he has not had the satisfaction of the aforesaid 
amount all the objects belonging to him will be sold at 
public auction. 

“By this our sentence we pronounce and we order the 


262 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


/ 



TRIBUNAL DE 1‘ 1STANC1A DE ESTA CIUDAD 





ti;ifiunal compucsto Be las ^hgs. 3^[agistiia3os cxpqcsaSos al maiden, )\e 
ilictaSa la.sirjuifcnte 

Sentencia,: 

fiplicanSo los articuios Set C6Si$o Penal nUms. «❖//.*✓,? 

SEftORES Debemos condenar y cvndenamos 

xxxjkj '"p * a n /i a * 

. J^U£C^^U4^ /^xZorA£ &rd*4 c&j&enar4^_._Ccr 
_ a <Za*ia#z^J^.druz/ ch <?_ (ZruyZx 

ra^xZo&g^/ <>z^xriTp>._ 

Lo con.dcnomos apimismo a l pago.de las costas ygastos dt su proceso, axe asclen - 
den i la suma.~Cto ZyZfcZ&'&ZzX, 

'g.££s &/n+Z<e4.. ez/ . Zax? SSj&xdx? jffic 

-->' /$* *?fy ffi dcJexdf .^ __ 

(Bcd^t-TCceZv .Ore* 

Y si en el plazo de C^yCt^ ^ .*£U?t<X4&46.J^^dbnlados desde el pronun- 
tlQmiento dc esta Sentencia, no ha satis/echo dlcha cantKad, todos los ob/etos de su 
propiedcd serin vendldos en licitaciin pilbllca. 

Por esta mreslra Sentencia asl lo pronunciamos y mandamos sir ejecucldn habicndo 
sido publicada y scltada por orden del Excmo. Sr. Pfbsidente de esta Audienda. 

Madrid. - — ~de j2jX<-'e^. _ de 19 . ~ 

fcs £opla, 

li(l fte cnetat lo, 

fcnzZv-xJL 


t 




















THE NATIONAL SWINDLE 


263 


execution of same. Published and sealed under the 
orders of His Excellency the President of the Tribunal. 

“Madrid, 24th June, 1920.” 

The last and what seemed to me to be the most im¬ 
portant portion of all the documents, was the final one 
which contained the minute instructions by which the 
release of the long suffering De Silva was to be effected, 
stipulating the handling of the money, the hotel, route 
and such matters. It was plain from this document that 
the rescue had been well planned and carefully thought 
out. The paper, a translation like the others, said: 

“Please observe these instructions minutely so as 
not to meet with any mishap. Your itinerary must be 
the following: 

“In New York you will take a steamer to France or 
England, and when reaching Europe, Paris, from Paris 
directly to Madrid. 

“At Paris you can take the train which leaves from 
Quai d’Orsay station at 8 :27 night, taking your ticket 
direct to Madrid. 

“The same day leaving New York please cable the 
gaoler, whose address you will see hereunder, and when 
reaching Paris I beg of you to send another telegram to 
the same address saying the hour of your departure for 
Madrid in order that I may calculate when you can arrive. 

“At your arrival in Madrid at the outlet of the sta¬ 
tion you will take a cab of the many are there showing 
the cabman the small enclosed paper where is appointed 
the name of the hotel. This hotel is placed in the cen¬ 
ter of the town where you shall be nicely lodged. The 
gaoler will go to meet you asking for your name giving 
you a letter of mine and resting to your disposal to aid 
you in everything. 


264 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


“I beg you again to recommend the utmost reserve 
in regard to our affair because the least word you might 
drop might compromising. The matter must be a se¬ 
cret between you and me. 

“Please remark the following important advice 
about the manner of bringing your money. As our 
matter must be finished at once because as I have said 
you it is necessary at all to do the payment for leaving 
fee the seizure the same day of your arrival, that is to 
say, the same day that the gaoler will do the operation 
you know, it shall be the utmost convenient for you to 
bring your money in U. S. bank notes and not in a check 
nor another banking paper, because in Spain when cashing 
a foreign check or the like is required as a guarantee the 
signature of a local trading firm. Obviously that neith¬ 
er I in my actual situation nor the gaoler owing to the 
delicateness of the matter can procure you and the best 
for avoiding all kind of troubles and losses of time will 
be to bring the amount in American bank notes. 

“However, if for precaution should you prefer cross¬ 
ing the sea carrying with you your money in a check, you 
can do so, bringing a check cashable at London or Paris 
before coming to Spain for the above reasons you must 
cash it. 

“American, English or French bank notes are accept¬ 
ed and exchanged in Spain without any trouble at all. I 
beg you not to forget the sending of both telegrams and 
follow carefully my instructions for avoiding loss of 
time, all must be done here as I have explained you be¬ 
ing the matter finished the same day of your arrival. 

“Awaiting anxiously the moment of shaking your 
hand, 

“I am your dear friend, 


“Roberto De Silva.” 


THE NATIONAL SWINDLE 


265 


“Address where you must send the two telegrams. 

“Mariana Soto, Aquas K. Segundo, Madrid. I 
think you will have well understood how easy is the mat¬ 
ter for you. You come and pay departing immediately 
with my daughter to cash the check and to retire the trunk 
of the French railway station.” 

When I had finished reading the last document I 
tilted back in my chair and stared across the table at the 
man who sat across from me. He squinted at me through 
the haze of cigar smoke. 

“Well,” he said, “what do you think of it all?” 

“A most remarkable thing,” I replied. It was. In 
all my years in the handling of various kinds of criminal 
cases I had run against some queer affairs, both public 
and private. But this had a romantic interest attached 
to it that far outstripped anything with which I had come 
in contact. It was like a chapter out of Robert Louis 
Stevenson, or a scrap of Captain Kidd. I could under¬ 
stand thoroughly the manner in which Richardson, hard, 
practical, unemotional man though he was, had been in¬ 
trigued by the luring adventure of it. 

“What do you want me to do with this?” I asked, 
somewhat puzzled to determine why he had brought the 
matter to me. 

Richardson paused a moment before replying. Then 
he leaned forward and tapped the table with an impres¬ 
sive finger. 

“I want you to make a careful investigation of this 
matter,” he said. “I want you to verify the dates of 
trans-Atlantic sailings and the data regarding hotel ac¬ 
commodations. I want to know exactly how much time 
this trip will take. In the meantime, I am going to set 
my affairs in order * * * 


266 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


“And—” 

“Well, Nick, I am going to take a fling at it, that’s 
all. I am frank to confess that the thing has got me. 
If, for instance, this letter had fallen into the hands of 
some unscrupulous person, if the Apaches of Paris, for 
instance, should find out the helplessness of this girl 
of sixteen *****” 

This was indeed a new angle on Justin H., one that 
some of his associates would have given many dollars 
to see. Yet here he sat in my office, owning to a heart 
like any other human being. It was one of the sidelights 
on human nature that the detective and the newspaper 
man often glean, sidelights denied to the rest of less for¬ 
tunate humanity. Richardson went on: 

“I understand thoroughly the settled banking condi¬ 
tions of these South American countries and can appreci¬ 
ate why De Silva had to make his hasty flight. Here in 
God’s country we know only too well with what bankers 
have to contend when a new president goes into office 
overnight, or between suns. The bankers are the first 
victims always. So I am going to do what I can. But 
for the grace of circumstances, De Silva might have been 
myself. * * *” 

He arose abruptly and reached for his hat. 

“I will await some word from you,” he said. “In 
the meantime, I shall go ahead with my arrangements. 
Get your information as quickly as you can.” 

He laid a one-hundred dollar banknote on the table. 

“For expenses,” he remarked, adding that I had but 
to call on him for any additional amount I needed to 
secure the necessary data. 

Long after Justin H. Richardson left me, I sat in the 
office and studied the letter and the attached documents 
over and over. A detective, delving into the vicissitudes 
of human existence has some strange commissions. This 


THE NATIONAL SWINDLE 


267 


was the first time, however, that I had been confronted 
with the task of checking up trans-Atlantic steamers and 
hotel accommodations in France, England and Spain as 
a part of one and the same commission. 

As I pondered over the matter, certain words con¬ 
nected with the whole episode as set forth, began to drum 
in my head—words that at first had no meaning, and 
yet as time went on grew into a queer significance that 
I could only but half appreciate. 

“Banker, South America, prison, Barcelona, Spain!” 

Six words—six familiar words. Familiar? Where 
had I heard them before linked together? Was it in a 
headline? Was it a faint shadowy memory of my news¬ 
paper days—some forgotten scrap of something that 
wanted to come back * * * that knocked at the 

door of my inner consciousness, seeking translation? 

The thing worried me. I wanted to get away from 
it—from the case itself. I have found through long ex¬ 
perience that the knottiest problems untie when one gets a 
distance away from them. One gains perspective, clari¬ 
ty of vision. But the pounding emphasis of those six 
words refused to let me escape. It was like a haunting 
voice calling to me out of the past—trying to tell me 
something. But what? 

On an impulse I went to the theatre, resolved to vio¬ 
lently tear myself away from the thing and start on the 
morrow free from impressions. Seeking escape from the 
heat I came across a cool arcade, and followed the crowd, 
not caring to wait what the picture might be. As it hap¬ 
pened it was one well known in the picture world—“The 
Modern Musketeers.” To me the thing was a title and 
nothing more. 

I sank into my seat and gave myself over to the en¬ 
joyment of Douglas Fairbanks in the lead. The reel 
unrolled. It went from action to action, as does all of 


268 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


Fairbank’s stuff. Suddenly there flashed up a Kansas 
cyclone where an expectant mother was reading about 
the “Three Musketeers.” The cyclone sent my mind 
jumping back some twenty years, when I was a police re¬ 
porter on one of the big metropolitan dailies. There had 
been a tremendous windstorm and a frame house crum¬ 
pled to the ground, burying several families in the debris. 

I arrived on the scene with the police in time to take 
part in the rescue work. Among the victims we found 
a wealthy woman and three children. 

Her husband, she said, had gone to Spain to help a 
man out of prison. 

It was at this juncture that the picture before me 
faded out suddenly as memories smashed home with 
terrific sharpness. Spain! To help a man out of prison! 
Other angles of the picture came back. A hunt through 
the ruins * * * the finding of a letter in a dresser 

drawer, which the woman had read to me * * * 

the husband’s address at Barcelona, Spain. 

Unconscious of the stares of indignant persons who 
resented my departure, I jumped suddenly to my feet 
and went scrambling for the aisle, and so out into the 
night. * * * 

The next morning Justin H. Richardson came to my 
office in response to my summons. He was manifestly 
excited, for I had told him over the telephone that facts 
I had discovered would make it impossible for him to 
take the trip—that he would refuse to take the trip, 
in fact. He rushed in without knocking. 

“What’s happened?” he asked. 

For answer I handed over a brief typewritten report 
which I had compiled the night before after leaving the 
movie theater. He gave me a curious look and then 


THE NATIONAL SWINDLE 


269 


settled down to the reading. Ten minutes later he laid 
the report down on my desk. 

“Well, I’ll be damned!” he said. In that phrase he 
expressed his full appreciation of one of the cleverest 
swindling games ever invented to mulct an unsuspicious 
American citizen. 

The “stunt,” as I explained it in my report, was to 
select some big business man—one of unimpeachable 
standing in a community and make him the victim. This 
was done, first, because he possessed money to make the 
trip; second, because he could not afford to “squeal” 
when he found he had been victimized, and third, be¬ 
cause he is made to believe that he has violated the law. 

When the victim arrived in Spain with the much 
coveted grip and the claim check for $300,000 to bribe 
the jailer, he was immediately arrested by bogus officers 
and threatened with a jail sentence for attempting to 
bribe state officials. He naturally paid any price to get 
out of the mess, figuring on his standing and the trouble 
that would follow an expose of his action. He was then 
placed aboard a home-bound train or boat to hurry 
away as far from Barcelona and sunny Spain as his in¬ 
come would take him. 

“I have had a talk with Postoffice Inspector Cook- 
son,” I said, as Richardson stared at me with his mouth 
open, the report trailing idly in his fingers. “He tells 
me that your letter is about the thirtieth that was received 
in 30 days—an average of one a day. The government 
is trying to trace the author. At that, it is powerless to 
do anything, as no offense has been committed in this 
country, the money always being passed in Spain. 

Opening a wallet, I passed back the $100 which 
Justin H. Richardson had given me as a retaining fee. 

“I won’t need this now,” I grinned at him. 

Justin H. removed his cigar and hurled it far out 


270 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


of the window. Then he took another $100 bill from his 
capacious pocket and laid it beside the first. 

“Nick,” he said solemnly, “there is one more favor 
I want to ask of you. This money is for services rendered, 
but there is a string to it.” 

“Shoot,” I said, “let’s hear the worst.” 

“Well,” said Richardson, and there was a gleam of 
sardonic amusement in his eye. “I want you to spend 
this finding Doug Fairbanks for me. When you meet 
him just thank him for me and tell him his picture saved 
Justin H. Richardson a helluvalot of money. And then 
Nick . . . ask him to come over to my place, no 

matter what time of night or day it is, and kick me— 
hard! I’d like to have Doug do that because I have an 
idea he would do it . . . well! Good-bye.” 

“Good-bye.” 


THE MYSTERY WOMAN 


r I A HERE are mysteries in every police department— 
strange, garish, bizarre happenings that remain 
forever unsolved and baffle the ingenuity of even the 
cleverest of detectives. Such is the DuPeche case, the 
mystery of Mary Rogers (from which Edgar Allan Poe 
wrote his famous “Marie Roget” series), the carpenter 
Schumann in Berlin and Vienna’s famous “Organ Grind¬ 
er” murder. Of such is the mystery of the nude woman 
of Los Angeles, which is still noted in police records as 
an unfinished puzzle. 

The first chapter of this strange affair, upon which a 
romancer could weave a whole book of thrills, began in 
my office in Los Angeles on a late afternoon, when 
spring was in the air and the jangle of the telephone 
registered on every weary nerve fibre like the blow of 
a hammer. I had just rolled the top of my desk shut, 
with the vision of a trout rod and the bogging fly danc¬ 
ing on the stream, when my stenographer entered with the 
remark that a woman was waiting to see me. 

There are many times, as DeQuincy points out, when 
murder becomes a fine art, and its conception the acme 
of human desire. One such bore in upon me at that in¬ 
stant. A woman was the last thing I wanted to see just 
then, especially a woman with a complaint, a grievance 
or a “case.” I was about to refer her to my district man¬ 
ager when I recalled that he was on his vacation and 
would not be available for at least a week. With a sigh, 
I reopened my desk. 


272 WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 



“All right,” I groaned. “Show her in, but tell her 
to make it snappy.” 

The stenographer laughed and went out. A moment 
later the door opened to admit a tall, gaunt woman of 
about 50 years of age, upon whose countenance was de¬ 
picted the very essence of fear and worry. She remind¬ 
ed me for all the world of an animal driven into a cor¬ 
ner from which there was no escape. In one quick glance, 
I estimated her mentally as a woman who has been under 
terrific stress and who was rapidly approaching what 
psychologists call the “breaking point.” 

“You wished to see me?” I asked vacuously. There 
seemed nothing else to say. 

“Are you Mr. Harris—himself?” she asked. 
v “Yes,” I replied. 

The woman sank into a chair that I slid toward her 









































































THE MYSTERY WOMAN 


273 


with a sigh that I took to be relief. Her hands twisted 
together and her eyes roved around the room. She gave 
every indication of being tremendously agitated. 

“I—I want to talk to you—alone,” she said. “I 
can’t speak unless we are alone.” 

“We are alone,” I assured her. “There is no one 
here but myself and my stenographer.” 

She seemed relieved. Then she explained. 

“I want you to promise that you will never reveal 
my identity,” she began; “never under any circum¬ 
stances. I would lose my life if it was known that I had 
talked to you.” 

This was startling, to say the least. I scrutinized 
her carefully. She seemed sane and normal, save for the 
mental tension under which she was laboring. What 
could it all mean? 

“You shall be entirely protected,” I said. “Your 
identity will be absolutely safe. That is, of course, if 
you have not committed a crime. If you have done 
that . . .” 

“Oh, no, no, no—not that!” she cried. “It is not 
I—it is someone else.” 

She had whetted my curiosity, of which every de¬ 
tective, however blase he may become in the line of his 
business, always carries a reserve stock. 

“Tell me what it is all about,” I said quietly. 

The words seemed to have a steadying effect on the 
woman. She drew up her chair, and placing a worn 
handbag on the corner of my desk, told me of the Mys¬ 
tery of the Nude Woman, as it had been unrolled before 
her eyes during the dramatic hours of several eventful 
nights. I give it here as she told it that day to me in my 
office, in her simple, frightened way. 

“I live at Sixth and Rampart streets,” she said. “My 
sister and I live alone. The neighborhood is very quiet 



274 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


and the least thing unusual is immediately noticed. About 
six weeks ago a very striking woman and her mother 
rented a house not far from the corner. She is a very 
beautiful woman, with heavy black hair and wonderful 
features. The mother was a woman well along in life, 
but very active. 

“I noticed, when they moved in, that very little furni¬ 
ture went into the house. It is a big place and the last 
family took away a whole van load. I his couple had 
only a couple of bedsprings, a few chairs, a rug or so 
and several packing cases. These, with a piano, con¬ 
stituted the whole furnishing. It struck me as peculiar 
at the time, because they did not look like people who 
lived in that manner. 

“You know how it is when strangers move into a 
neighborhood—everybody is interested in them. We 
noted very soon that no tradespeople ever called there. 
My grocer went over, but was told that they did not want 
him. The baker had a similar experience. The milk¬ 
man was the only one whom they permitted to come in¬ 
to the yard. He left a quart of milk each day and took 
away the bottles from the preceding day. He told me 
they hardly ever spoke to him. 

“One morning—it was about 2 o’clock, I think—we 
heard the woman singing. She had a wonderful voice, 
and, what was still more startling, she sang many of the 
operatic masterpieces. It was entertaining, although we 
did not appreciate the lateness of the hour. When, how¬ 
ever, night after night, or morning after morning, at that 
unearthly hour, she repeated this performance, it grew 
to be annoying. 

“This had been going on for about a week, when one 
morning, happening to look over in her direction, I saw 
her take a large, white Angora cat out of a washtub and 
hang it by its tail to the clothesline to dry. The cat fought 


THE MYSTERY WOMAN 


275 


and scratched, but the woman held it with her hands 
until she was satisfied that it was dry. Then she took 
it down and carried it into the house. Needless to say, 
this gave me quite a shock and caused me to pay more 
than ordinary attention to her movements. 

“The very next day there was a high wind. A large 
tree in the back yard blew down and a branch split off 
and fell into this woman’s yard. She came out and 
bandaged the broken limb with strips which she tore 
from her underskirt. Then she carried it into the house, 
talking to it in a tender, wheedling voice. From this I 
began to suspect that the woman was insane. 

“The following night I called on a neighbor who 
lived directly back of the apartment of this woman. 
We were startled to hear a stream of profanity in a 
woman’s voice. Going to the rear window we saw one 
of the strangest and most surprising sights I have ever 
witnessed. The lights were on in the woman’s apartment. 
The hallway was directly in our line of vision. At the 
end was a large, full length mirror. 

“Standing in front of this mirror was the woman 
herself—absolutely nude. Her skin looked like chiseled 
marble, which was accentuated by her long black hair, 
which was trailing below her knees in a cascade of jet. 
She was the most beautiful sight I have ever seen. But 
what gave us the creeps was the way in which she pointed 
into the glass at her own image and laughed hysterically. 
Now and then she would break into a stream of pro¬ 
fanity and abuse. 

“We watched the sight in fascination for several 
moments. Finally the woman snapped off the light and 
everything was quiet. We stared at each other. What 
did it all mean? What was wrong? There was no 
answer. We talked far into the night over it, but the 
woman’s rooms remained dark, and I finally went home, 


276 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


but not to sleep. I don’t think anyone else slept that 
witnessed that eerie sight. 

“A few days later I saw the little old lady, whom I 
took to be the girl’s mother, sitting beside an open window 
knitting. While I watched, the girl rushed up to her, 
dressed in a peculiar yellow kimono, and, standing over 
her with upraised hands, began to scream. 

“ ‘I’ve taken care of you long enough!’ she shrieked. 
‘I’ve taken care of you long enough! You’ve got to 
die—to—die—to die! Tonight, at midnight, you’ve got 
to die!’ 

“The old lady smiled up at her and kept on with 
her knitting. If it had been I, I would have fainted 
right there from fright. But it didn’t seem to bother her 
any, and after a bit the girl went away, and I heard 
nothing more from her that afternoon. ■* 



“Tonight at midnight you’ve got to die!” 



















































THE MYSTERY WOMAN 


277 


“Ihat night, however, we were awakened by the most 
terrific cries from the younger woman—wild, heartrend¬ 
ing shrieks. It awakened the entire neighborhood, 
d hen we heard awful noises, like the bumping of human 
bodies against walls and doors, and finally the most 
peculiar sound, as though someone was being hacked to 
pieces in a bathtub. It was the most terrible thing I had 
ever heard.” 

The woman broke off and fell to shaking all over. 
I stared at her in astonishment. No wonder she was a 
wreck, with a thing like that, rivaling in its mystery the 
wildest dreams of French Apache fiction, in the middle 
of the thickly populated district in Los Angeles. 

“Go on,” I said. “What did happen?” 

“Oh, the most terrible thing,” she continued. “The 
younger woman came out shortly after midnight in her 
yellow kimono. She had an umbrella tied over her head 
in some way. I could see her plainly in the moonlight. 
She had a spade, and while I watched her she dug—a 
grave!” 

“In her yard?” Something of the woman’s excite¬ 
ment had reached me. I confess it frankly. 

“In her back yard,” said the woman. “She dug only 
a shallow grave. I couldn’t watch her any longer. When 
she went to the house I knew it was to get the body of 
that old lady. I simply couldn’t see any more. I rushed 
into my room, crawled into my bed, and pulled the covers 
up over my head. My, God! Mr. Harris, you don’t 
know what I’ve been through!” 

She fell to weeping softly from sheer nerve reaction. 
After a moment she calmed herself. 

“I peeked through the curtains this morning,” she 
said. “The grave is out there in the yard. The woman 
has it all covered with potted plants, but you can still see 
the fresh earth. Oh, it’s terrible!” 


278 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


It was. I had to admit that myself. If what this 
woman had seen was correct, it seemed that she had wit¬ 
nessed, almost in detail, a cold-blooded murder. 

“Have the police been notified?” I asked. 

“No,” she said. “I came straight to you. I was 
afraid to report it to them. For the woman is a fiend 
and if anything happened that she found out that I— 
Oh, don’t you understand? I don’t want her to know—” 

I did understand thoroughly. Her attitude was a 
natural one. The picture she had so graphically drawn, 
spread out with all the vividness of a motion picture. 
Something must be done immediately. 

“You go home,” I said to her, “and wait for me. 
I’ll get a couple of detectives and we’ll go right after this 
thing. And don’t be afraid—I shall protect you. No 
one will ever know a word of your presence here.” 

The woman thanked me and went out. A fishing 
trip with this thing at hand—a mysterious woman, posing 
in the nude, a midnight murder, and a hidden grave! 
Could any detective have wanted a “liver” case? It was 
the most amazing thing I had ever heard in my life. 

It took but a few minutes to summon two of my 
detectives and get a couple of police detectives from head¬ 
quarters. In a few words I explained the situation to 
them, standing in front of the police station. Detective 
Sergeant Joe Taylor, an old timer at the business, 
whistled. 

“Great Scott, Nick,” he said. “If that woman’s 
story is true you have uncovered one of the big murders 
of the country.” 

The thought of this keyed us all up to a high pitch. 
Without more delay, we speeded out to the spot indicated 
by my informant as the home of the mysterious nude 
woman. We found the neighborhood in a high state of 
excitement. Leaving Taylor and Detective Sergt. Fred 


THE MYSTERY WOMAN 


279 


Bowie, one of the central office men, recently killed by 
blackhanders, watching the house, Wm. G. Hanson of my 
office, and I scouted through the neighborhood for fur¬ 
ther information. 

Directly across the back yard in which we saw, as my 
informant had declared we would, the freshly made 
grave, I found a woman with her two daughters. The 
mother, when I told her my errand, almost threw her 
hands around my neck. 

“I never was so glad to see a detective in my life,” 
she exclaimed. 

She took me into the sitting room and there verified 
everything that the neighbor had told me. In the par¬ 
lance of our childhood days the thing was getting “hot.” 
After asking her sufficient questions to satisfy myself 
that the story I had heard was not a visionary belief of 
some imaginative woman, and receiving a verification of 
the mysterious sounds of the night before, I returned to 
the two officers on watch. Taylor motioned to me. 

“For the love of Mike,” he said. “Listen to that!” 

In the silence of the little street, we could hear 
someone inside the woman’s apartment on a terrible ram¬ 
page, smashing furniture, shouting and throwing things 
around in all directions. Taylor and Bowie and I looked 
at each other. 

“Sounds like another murder going on,” I remarked. 

Taylor nodded. 

“Well,” he said, “let’s move in on it.” 

Taylor, Earl Cowan, now resident manager of my 
San Diego office, and myself, went to the back door. 
Bowie and William G. Hanson, general manager of my 
office, walked up the front steps and rang the bell. The 
smashing continued, and no one answered the ring on the 
door. Bowie tried the knob. The door swung back a 


280 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


short distance, where it remained, held by a heavy chain, 
sometimes used in old-style houses as a burglar lock. 

In the meantime, Taylor and Cowan forced an en¬ 
trance through the back way. The noise seemed to come 
from upstairs. I walked down the hall, unlocked the 
chain and let Bowie and Hanson in. Together the five 
of us started up the stairs in the direction of the sound. 

Instantly they ceased! It was the most uncanny sen¬ 
sation I have ever experienced. One moment there was 
the greatest din and hubbub imaginable. The next—the 
stillness of a tomb, broken only by our own breathing. 
As we stood there uncertainly, undecided what to do next, 
there came a volley of oaths from a room at the head of 
the stairs in a low-keyed voice and a sudden command: 

“Kill the first—blank—blank—one that sticks his 
head through the door!” said the voice. 

“This is my house,” said a woman’s voice. “I’ll shoot 
them down like dogs.” 

Pleasant thought that. Taylor, who was ahead, 
halted suddenly. 

“Did you say this was going to be a nice party, 
Nick?” he asked in a whisper, turning to me. 

“Not me,” I said. “But where did the man get in 
on this? I understood there were only two women here.” 

Cautiously we crept up to the landing, while more 
conversation took place within the room, which we could 
not make out. And then: 

“Get away from that door! Shoot through the 
panels.” 

This in the heavy voice again. 

I saw Taylor’s hand slip to his gun pocket and the 
whisked blue nose of his police weapon gleamed in the 
dull light. Taylor was a dead shot, and I knew some¬ 
body would get hurt if shooting started. He was an old 


THE MYSTERY WOMAN 281 

Scotland Yard man and a detective that never backed out 
of any emergency. 

“Spread out in the hallway,” he said. “I’m going 
through that door!” 

I detailed Cowan to go outside and watch the front 
windows, to prevent anyone getting down that way. 
Then Taylor stepped forward and standing back slightly 
from the path of a possible bullet, he rapped sharply on 
the door. Hanson and I stood by his side. 

“Open up,” he commanded. “This is a police officer 
speaking!” 

“Come in if you dare,” screamed a woman’s voice. 
“Come in that door and I’ll blow your head off. Come 
on—I dare you.” 

Taylor stood motionless for a moment. Then he 
stepped back and hurled his bulk squarely into the middle 
of the panel of that locked door. It was one of the ner¬ 
viest things I ever saw a detective do. He did not know 
what lay on the other side. He did not know but in the 
minute of his action a bullet would end his life then and 
there. It was all the same to Taylor. He saw his duty 
and he met it. 

The door bulged, split and gave inward with a roar of 
splintered wood. It did not come clear of the frame, 
but hung part way open. We learned afterward that 
there was a steel plate screwed on it, against which was 
a steel rod braced against the door. But at the moment 
we thought someone was holding it from the other side. 
In a body we rushed to Taylor’s aid, and the combined 
weight snapped the rod and released the door, and we 
went plunging head foremost in the room. 

I will say frankly that every man in the party halted 
with his mouth open. There, backed into the corner of 
the room, which was littered with fragments of furniture 
and splinters from the broken door, was the woman we 


282 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 



sought—the mystery woman of the night—absolutely 
nude. She stood there, a scornful smile upon her lips, 
her arms folded—an angry Venus in white, just as Rodin 
might have sculptured marble into a perfect semblance 
of human flesh. 

“Damn you,” she screamed at us, “do your worst!” 

There was not another soul in the room, not a human 
being but herself. It was a single room without a closet. 
Taylor stepped to the window. He met the upturned, 
watchful face of Cowan on the ground beneath. It was 
plain no one had escaped. 

“What the . . began Taylor. Then he stopped. 

Into the queer, strained silence of the room, from 






























































































THE MYSTERY WOMAN 


283 


that beautiful nude figure in the corner, came another 
voice, a heavy voice, the voice that we had mistaken for 
that of a man. 

“Leave this room instantly!” she said. 

There was a sigh of relief from all of us. So that 
was it—a ventriloquistic gift, of parts. There had been 
no other person, only this. Then came the reaction. 

One of my men got a blanket from a bedroom ad¬ 
joining and we wrapped the woman in it. We expected a 
battle here, but she made no resistance. The scorn in 
her face gave way to one of bewilderment. After a bit 
she began to weep, and that part of our problem was 
over, for the time at least. 

The real purpose of the affair was yet to be investi¬ 
gated. The old lady— 

With a queer gone feeling in our stomachs, we pushed 
open the bathroom door, expecting to come face to face 
with evidence of a brutal, fiendish, insane murder. In¬ 
stead we found an orderly room, neatly arranged, and 
nothing whatever to indicate that a crime had been com¬ 
mitted, or that the old lady had been murdered. In fact, 
we found not a single bit of evidence of murder in the 
entire place. 

We ended our search on the back porch. Taylor be¬ 
gan to laugh. 

“We have everything but the murder,” he said. 

“And the grave,” I remarked. 

“Oh, by George, yes,” he replied. “Find a shovel, 
will you?” 

I did. I found a couple. They were still covered 
with fresh earth. Taylor took one and I the other. For 
a seeker after sensation, there is nothing that will cure 
him quicker than the task of exhuming a murdered body. 
It cured me, and I have never been a sensational person. 


284 WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 

It was, in fact, about the most difficult task I have ever 
tackled. 

Every time I drove the point of that spade into the 
ground I expected to bring up short in human flesh. 
Taylor was in much the same frame of mind as myself. 
We dug and dug, carefully, cautiously, turning back 
spadeful after spadeful of soft earth, with the perspira¬ 
tion pouring from us in streams. And it was not a warm 
day at that. 

Finally Taylor straightened up and looked at me. 

“Nick,” he said, ‘Tve struck bottom.” 

I turned a couple more shovelfuls. 

“So have I,” I replied. 

Three minutes' work and we had the grave empty. 
It was about three feet deep and the regulation six feet 
in length. But—there was no body in it and never had 
been. The woman in her dementia had constructed the 
grave and then filled it up again and placed the flowers 
on top. Right now I want to say that it was a tie be¬ 
tween Taylor and myself as to which was the most re¬ 
lieved at the discovery. 

The shallow grave, however, only deepened the mys¬ 
tery of the case. For right there ended all traces of the 
old lady, the supposed mother of the beautiful insane 
girl whom we had safely trussed indoors, away from pos¬ 
sible harm. For despite a continued investigation lasting 
over months, in which police and private detectives and 
a score of agencies engaged, no trace of the aged woman 
was ever found! 

The girl was taken in charge by relatives, who failed 
to furnish us with any clue in the matter. We dug up the 
yard from end to end and almost took the house to pieces 
with the assistance of the owners, but the efforts availed 


THE MYSTERY WOMAN 


285 


us nothing. The girl was hopelessly insane. The mother 
had vanished into thin air. And the whole mysterious 
case is still on police records as one of the queer, un¬ 
solved chapters in criminal investigation for which there 
has been so far absolutely no answer. 


WITHERELL CASE 


HERE have been many mysterious criminal cases 



on the Pacific coast, involving queer, bizarre or 
strange elements. But none was more inexplicable, more 
sudden or more completely without a clue than that in 
which the beautiful Mrs. Gladys Withered was the cen¬ 
tral and tragic figure. And no crime was ever more 
quickly solved through good, old-fashioned detective 
work than this one. 

Mrs. Gladys Withered was the wife of Otto S. With¬ 
ered, a wealthy broker, whose home was situated in 
Hollywood, California. Of the family there was only 
Withered, Mrs. Withered and a baby to whom the par¬ 
ents were wholly devoted, and the servants. The couple 
were wed liked, Mrs. Withered being a popular social 
favorite in the set in which she moved. 

On the afternoon of January 25, of this year, Mrs. 
Withered was in the front part of the house, engaged in 
domestic duties, when her front doorbell rang. The 
baby was playing on the floor at the time. The servants 
were at the rear and Mrs. Withered herself answered the 
doorbell. A gray haired man was standing there, his 
hat in his hand. 

“Are you Mrs. Withered?” he asked. 

“Yes,” she replied. 

“Wed,” he said, “an old lady has met with a serious 
accident over on the boulevard and is calling for you to 
come at once.” 

“An accident? An old lady? Who?” 

Mrs. Withered plumped the questions at him. 


WITHERELL CASE 


287 


“I don’t know, lady,” said the man. “There’s a lot 
of people there—they asked me to come . . . the 

old lady kept asking for you . . 

“Just a minute!” snapped Mrs. Withered. 

Running indoors, she called some instructions to her 
servants. Then she caught up a tam-o’-shanter on the 
bed and ran next door to a neighbor’s house. 

“Will you watch the baby for a few minutes,” she 
said, to the neighbor, her face drawn with anxiety. “Mr. 
Witherell’s mother has met with an accident on the boule¬ 
vard. ... I shall be back shortly.” 

The neighbor was shocked by the information. She 
readily agreed to care for the baby. But she did not 
notice the direction Mrs. Withered took with the aged 
man. 

This was at 6:30 o’clock. At 7 o’clock Withered 
reached his home from his office. He found the neighbor 
caring for the baby. 

“I think your mother has been hurt, Mr. Withered,” 
she said. “A man came for Mrs. Withered just a little 
while ago. . . . He came to my place first and I sent 

him over here. She hasn’t returned yet.” 

“My mother?” 

Withered ran from the place and jumping into his car 
sped to the spot on the boulevard where the neighbor in¬ 
formed him the accident had occurred. He found only 
a broad open boulevard with no trace of an accident along 
its entire length. Questions of passing motorists revealed 
no knowledge on their part of anything amiss. 

Worried out of his usual calm, Withered dropped 
into a corner drug store and telephoned ad the hospitals, 
from the Central Emergency hospital in Los Angeles to 
a string of private sanatoriums, ad without result. With 
these exhausted, Withered turned to the police and told 
his story. 


288 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


At midnight, six hours after the disappearance of 
Gladys Withered, the telephone in my home jangled 
harshly, bringing me upright in bed, startled out of a 
sound sleep. Detective Sergeant Hurt of the Hollywood 
division was on the wire. 

“Climb into your clothes, Nick,” he said. “Gladys 
Withered has been kidnapped. Mr. Withered, his 
father and I are coming over 

I hung up the receiver and raced for my clothes, 
thoroughly awake now. Gladys Withered kidnapped! 
I knew her as a wonderfully pretty woman, who dressed 
in attractive picture clothes, and made a most charming 
picture with her baby in her husband’s machine. Al¬ 
though I did not know her, I liked her as a man often 
likes a woman for the fresh cleanliness of the type for 
which she stands. I mentally resolved that if there was 
anything I could do to find the kidnappers, I would gladly 
do it without reservation. 

Less than ten minutes elapsed before the whir of my 
apartment bed indicated that Sergeant Hurt had arrived. 
I opened the door to find him standing on the step ac¬ 
companied by Mr. Withered and his father, A. J. With¬ 
ered. There was a brief word of introduction. A mo¬ 
ment later we were clustered around a table in my parlor 
—a little, tense group, ad centered on finding the where¬ 
abouts of a beautiful woman who had left her home and 
baby to follow a false cad for assistance brought by a 
shambling, gray haired man. 

“My mother has not been hurt—is not hurt,” said 
Withered simply, summing up the matter. “I have noti¬ 
fied everyone, police, sheriff’s office . . . Will you 

help?” 

I said that I would—gladly. Then I proceeded to 
ask Withered a lot of questions. It seemed that he sus¬ 
pected no one—could think of no one who would have 


WITHERELL CASE 


289 


a grudge against him or his wife. He was hardly ready 
to believe that she had been kidnapped. But to Sergeant 
Hurt and myself, both wiser than Withered in criminal 
affairs, there seemed no doubt of this. 

“Can’t you think of a single person who might have 
a grudge against you . . . for anything . . . 

business, social . . .” 

Withered pondered. 

“There was a former partner . . .” He broke 
off and his clenched fist banged down on the table. “By 
George!” he exclaimed. “On the way over here, I saw 

my private secretary, Miss B-, out riding with him. 

I didn’t pay any attention to it at the time. ... I 
wonder?” 

Sergeant Hurt and I exchanged glances. The same 
thought struck us both. This was not only a clue. It 
had the earmarks of being a good clue. I said so. 

“You think so?” asked Withered in surprise. “Let’s 
hunt her up, then. I know where she . . 

“No, no,” I objected. “Not that. Let her alone. 
Let her go where she pleases. If she is involved in this, 
it is a cinch she isn’t in it alone. We want the whole 
gang . . .” 

“Yes,” broke in Withered, “but w r hile you fellows 
are doing ad this, my wife . . .” His voice broke. 

Sergeant Hurt laid a sympathetic hand on the broker’s 
shoulder. 

“Mr. Withered,” he said, “we will do the best we 
can, and we will work as fast as we can. But understand, 
we have no clues at ad yet. If your wife has been kid¬ 
naped, she is probably going to be held for ransom. The 
kidnapers will take mighty good care of her . . .” 

“For awhile, yes,” retorted Withered, shrewdly. 
“But later 

We ad knew what he meant. No pretty woman is 



290 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


ever safe in the hands of a gang of men unscrupulous 
enough to attempt a kidnapping party. Better than he, 
we knew that, under ordinary conditions she would be 
better dead. 

There was a brief discussion after that. Both Hurt 
and I cut it short. We had all the important information 
at hand and we were anxious to get to work. We finally 
separated for the night. Withered promised to find out 
all he could about the antecedents of his secretary and 
the partner who had first given her employment with the 
concern. 

The next morning the search for Mrs. Withered 
started in earnest. The ordinary person, reading of such 
a hunt, with his morning Java and breakfast rod, has 
little idea of what is involved within the simple confines 
of the word “search/' To him there is visualized a 
detective going in and out of hotels and lodging houses, 
studying crowds on the streets, scurrying through the 
underworld. But it is nothing of the sort. 

Stripped of its glamor, it is merely a problem in hard 
work. The Paris police know that as does no other set 
of man hunters in the world, except possibly Scotland 
Yard. It consists of picking up threads—silently, quietly, 
secretly—the laying down of those threads in some back 
room by a couple of keen brained men, and discussing 
their values and tendencies. Now and then the threads 
catch, snarl, inter-twine and form a knot. Out of those 
knots is built the ladder by which the detective climbs to 
conviction. 

The squad detailed to hunt for Gladys Witherell was 
a formidable one. It included detective Sergeant Louis 
Oaks (since chief of police), and Edgar King of the Los 
Angeles police department; Deputy Sheriffs Walter Lipps 


WITHERELL CASE 


291 



Floyd and Arthur Carr (the kidnapers) and arresting officers. 


and William Anderson of the sheriff’s office, and myself 
with my personal staff of operatives. We assembled the 
following morning in my office and went over every angle 
of the case. There we mapped out our campaign in the 
man hunt, which had jumped into front page prominence 
on every paper in the city and was already a morning 
hour news sensation. 

It was decided that I would take care of the shadow¬ 
ing of the secretary and her friend, the former partner 
of Withered. That seemed to be the best angle of the 
matter. The police and the sheriff’s office were to con¬ 
tent themselves with handling the great number of “tips” 





































































































































































































































292 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


which always accompany the breaking open of a case of 
this nature. In this particular affair, more than fifty 
telephone messages and letters were received during that 
day from persons who knew of various strange houses 
and odd looking occupants that came and went to and 
from them. Unfortunately, these tips were valueless. 
They usually are. And yet, now and then, out of a bushel 
of chaff, there frequently turns up the psychological grain 
of wheat. And so they had to all be investigated. It 
was these stray bits of information that we all knew 
would take up the time of the police and sheriff’s office. 
And so they gave us the real “live” tip on the understand¬ 
ing that if it developed from that angle I would be called 
in at the “killing.” 

The first day of our investigation was noted on the 
calendar as Wednesday. On that day four of my opera¬ 
tives, Brown, Fuentez, Morgan and Bacon, were detailed 
to “cover” the secretary and the ex-partner. To “cover” 
them meant that they were to keep as close as possible to 
them every minute of the day and night, overhear, if 
possible, any conversations the watched persons might 
have, see where they ate, where they went, what they 
did, and keep track of the thousands and one activities of 
their every day life, so that a detailed report could be 
made from it for office study. 

It is the hardest part of the sleuth game—this con¬ 
stant trailing without being seen. It must be done as¬ 
tutely, cautiously, unostentatiously. It must be done so 
that the shadowed person will not suspect for a moment 
that it is being done. Contrary to popular suspicion, a 
person is not shadowed by the process of being followed 
by a detective. A detective may never follow him ten 
feet and still know every move that he makes. How is 
it done? That is a secret of the craft that will be told 
in another story later. 


WITHERELL CASE 


293 


The shadowing of the secretary and the former part¬ 
ner turned up some strange things. For instance, the 
partner came into his hotel Wednesday noon with a half- 
tied bundle under his arm. As he went through a swing¬ 
ing gate, Operative Brown, who was sweeping the hall¬ 
way of the building under the cap of a janitor, noted that 
he dropped a grey tam-o’-shanter hat on the floor—a 
woman’s tarn. 

This fact reported to me caused a quick telephone 
call to Withered. A grey tarn? Yes—Mrs. Withered 
had one. Did we have a clue? Perhaps—let him know 
later. Back on the job, with Brown still holding the wire. 
Anything else? No—the partner had picked up the tarn 
quickly and thrust it into the bundle and gone out. 
Where ? 

Operative Fuentez, rolling dice in front of a cigar 
stand, directly across the street from the ex-partner’s 
hotel, saw a man come out with a bundle under his arm. 
As the partner stepped onto the sidewalk, the janitor of 
the building came out and poured a bucket of water into 
the street. Instantly, Fuentez paid for his “shake,” 
lighted a cigar and started up the street in the direction 
opposite to that taken by the partner. 

Five minutes later, by some necromancy of the craft, 
Fuentez was a block ahead of the partner, on the same 
side of the same street, going in the same direction. He 
walked with a quick, swinging motion. Every second or 
so he would bring up his right hand to his face and take 
a puff from a lighted cigar which he carried in his fingers. 
Also he would take a quick look into a small condensing 
mirror which he carried cupped in the palm of the same 
hand. 

Flad the partner noticed him at all, which he did not, 
he would have seen a man walking ahead of him smoking. 
But Fuentez was doing more than that. He was watch- 



294 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


ing every movement that the former partner was making. 
So accurate was his check on the latter’s movements that 
when an aged gray haired man turned the corner and 
came face to face with the partner, Operative Fuentez 
knew it before half a dozen words had been interchanged. 

There was a car coming down the street toward 
Fuentez. He stepped to the curb, signaled it, and 
stepped aboard. The car passed the two men in conver¬ 
sation on the corner—the ex-partner of Witherell and 
the gray haired man. Fuentez got a good look at both 
of them. Two blocks away he alighted from the car, 
walked to a mail box, fumbled with a letter and glanced 
down the street. 

The two men had separated. The partner was walk¬ 
ing toward the downtown portion of the city. Behind 
him was a man who looked mightily like a janitor off 
duty—hot on the trail of the partner. His concern there¬ 
fore lay in the gray haired man. The latter had crossed 
the street and was proceeding toward the next corner. 

Fuentez was two blocks away at that time. Five 
minutes later he stepped from the running board of a 
machine driven by Operative Morgan, that had pulled in 
“accidentally” at the mail box where Fuentez had halted 
to post a letter, thanked Morgan for giving him a “lift” 
and turned into an office building on the main street. 
There was a crowd waiting for an elevator. In the crowd 
was a gray haired man—the one who had talked for a 
moment to the former partner. Fuentez stood beside his 
elbow. They got off on the same floor together. The 
gray haired man walked down a hallway and entered an 
office on which was a real estate sign. 

The hall emptied as the various persons turned into 
various offices. Fuentez stepped back, touched the ele¬ 
vator button, and was dropped to the lower floor. As 



WITHERELL CASE 


295 


he walked out the front door, Operative Morgan—the 
driver of the machine, was standing on the sidewalk. 

“Pardon me,” said Morgan, “but could you accom¬ 
modate me with a match?” 

“Certainly,” said Operative Fuentez. He fumbled in 
his pockets and handed over a box. “Room 408,” he 
said in a low voice. 

“Thanks!” said Operative Morgan. 

He entered the building, took the elevator to the 
fourth floor, walked directly to room 408, into which 
the gray haired man had entered, and opened the door. 
The gray haired man had his hat off and was sitting at 

his desk. On the door was the name of “James X-, 

Real Estate.” 

“Are you Mr. X?” asked Operative Morgan. 

“Yes, sir,” replied the gray haired man. “What can 
I do for you?” 

“How do you stand on life insurance?” asked Opera¬ 
tive Morgan, closing the door behind him. 

An hour later he left Mr. X-, real estate dealer, 

in a very much relieved frame of mind. It had not been 
a pleasant hour for the real estate man. In that period 
of time, he had learned that the keen faced, quick-spoken 
man before him was not a life insurance man, but a de¬ 
tective engaged in unraveling an incendiary fire in his 
neighborhood, and only by the production of proper cre¬ 
dentials, documents, papers and such things had he been 
able to properly alibi himself. Not a hint had been 
dropped that he was suspected of being the gray haired 
man of mystery who had lured the beautiful Mrs. Wither¬ 
ed away from her Hollywood home. 

The movements of the former partner proved of even 
less interest than those of the real estate man. The 
latter, who had turned out to be an eminently respectable 
citizen, was absolved from all connection with the case. 




296 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


The gray tarn was discovered not to be Mrs. Witherell’s. 
But it took hours of constant, detailed work to straighten 
it all out. And in the meantime the police and sheriff’s 
office combed the city for clues, queer parties of persons, 
mysterious women seen at various places, and all the 
usual false trails given the authorities when matters of 
this kind occupy public attention. 

The second day after Mrs. Withered’s disappear¬ 
ance, two letters arrived for Withered by special deliv¬ 
ery in the morning’s mail—one enclosing the other. They 
determined absolutely beyond question that Mrs. With¬ 
ered had been kidnaped, for one demanded a ransom as 
the price of her liberty and the other was from Mrs. 
Withered herself. The ransom letter read: 

Mr. Witherell: 

“By the time you receive this you will have notified 
the police, but that will do you no good, as your wife is 
in a safe place where she will be kept until you have left 
$20,000 next Sat. eve. at a place you will be told of 
later.” 

The letter from Mrs. Withered herself was in her 
own handwriting and read as follows: 

“I have been taken out here—don’t know where— 
but, Lamie, do whatever is wished to help me come home. 
Please take care of my Jack baby—he had another sped 
with his teeth today. I’m not hurt, but help me quick or 
I will go crazy again.—Babe. 

“P. S.—Lamie, I just learned that you must send 
money for me—$20,000. I don’t know what you can do, 
dear, but you must help me. Bettie W. can ted you how 
I got away. Please help me to come home; if you don’t, 
I will never see you ad again. 

“Gladys K. Witherell.” 




WITHERELL CASE 297 

There was no doubt as to the authenticity of the let¬ 
ter from Mrs. Withered. Her signature and her method 
of expression, according to her husband were distinctively 
her own. In the light of the unquestioned genuineness 
of the missive, the kidnaping angle became deadly seri¬ 
ous. Withered was for getting the $20,000 immedi¬ 
ately, but we pointed out that his wife was probably safe 
—held as hostage in fact—for the money, and that he 
had not, as yet, been told where to leave it. 

“But God knows what is happening to her,” he pro¬ 
tested. 

“Nothing, I think,” I argued. “They want the 
money—not Mrs. Withered. They will take good care 
of her.” 

Although I was trying to be optimistic about the mat¬ 
ter I did not feel as entirely free from worry as my words 
indicated. For a dainty, pretty woman of Mrs. Wither¬ 
ed’s type is never safe at any time in the hands of an 
unscrupulous gang of kidnapers, no matter what the un¬ 
derlying motive in her taking was originally. Personally, 
I was very much afraid for her. 

I expressed something of this to my associates from 
the detective bureau and the sheriff’s office. 

“We’ve got to get this outfit,” King said. 

“You know it,” growled Sergeant Oaks. “A11 I 
want is a look at ’em. . . .” He doubled a heavy 

fist and I knew the final innings would be good—when 
they happened. 

The one best bet seemed to be the former partner and 
the secretary, whose intimacy was still a matter of un¬ 
explained mystery in the case. Matters in this direction 
were brought to a crisis when Withered reported to us 
that the girl had urged him to see a fortune teller for a 
clue to Mrs. Withered’s disappearance. Questioned by 


298 WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 

Witherell the girl supplied the name of such a fortune 
teller. 

We traced the fortune teller and found that the girl 
was a regular visitant there, going once or twice a week 
for “readings.” It began to look now as though Wither¬ 
ell was being made the victim of a clever ring of bunko 
operators whose “ring” included the secretary, the 
former partner, and the men who had kidnaped Mrs. 
Witherell, with the fortune teller as a “come on” or in- 
fluencer, dabbling with her mummery and ready to urge 
Witherell to pay the ransom money. 

So strong was our impression in this regard, that we 
went up the next afternoon and had a long talk with this 
man. There were three of us—Sergeant Oaks, Deputy 
Sheriff Lipps and myself. We spent considerable time 
there, going into every angle of his possible connection 
with the case, on the theoretical assumption that he might 
be of assistance. He was cool, collected, politely inter¬ 
ested but not disturbed in the least, and bowed us out at 
the conclusion of the interview without having contributed 
a scrap of information worth while or added to our sus¬ 
picions or in any manner detracted from them. 

“He’s a hard nut to crack,” said Lipps, as we walked 
down the steps. “Better keep a close watch on him.” 

That is exactly what I did, that being my portion of 
the case. As a result, one of my operatives telephoned 
me at 3:15 the following morning that the former part¬ 
ner and Witherell’s secretary were at that moment at the 
Vernon Country Club and were accompanied by another 
man and a woman. 

“They are drinking,” said the operative. 

“Stay with them,” I ordered. 

At 4:30 a. m. the four left the club in a fast machine. 
They swung out of the country club drive amid a chorus 
of cries and laughter—the usual accompaniments of reck- 


WITHERELL CASE 


299 


less, all-night parties. My operative, in an equally fast 
machine, picked up the trail and did his best to cling be¬ 
hind. But it was an impossible task. With the empty 
boulevard before them, the quartet “stepped on the gas” 
and the last my “shadow” saw was a gleaming tail light 
flash over the crest of a hill and dip down the slant be¬ 
yond. 

At Thirty-sixth street the ride came to an abrupt and 
tragic end. The speeding machine crashed head-on into 
a Grand avenue car. The impact demolished the auto¬ 
mobile and hurled its occupants in all directions. The 
former partner and the secretary were both killed out¬ 
right and the other two injured. 

The next morning at the morgue we stood beside the 
end of our only trail in the Withered case—the two dead 
bodies of the persons we believed were responsible for 
the mysterious kidnapping of Mrs. Withered. The other 
couple that had accompanied them on the last ride were 
in the hospital. We questioned them for more than an 
hour. But they proved to be only chance acquaintances 
and knew nothing whatever about the case on which we 
were working. 

With the two persons whom we considered the main 
factors in the kidnaping eliminated, the big question now 
was: Where was Mrs. Withered? Was she bound and 
helpless, in some unknown room, awaiting release? 
Would she starve before we could find her? With the 
lips of these two—the partner and the secretary—sealed 
by death, who could now reveal the unfortunate woman’s 
hiding place ? 

These were the questions we put to each other in the 
next few minutes as we stood on the steps of the under¬ 
taker and fronted each other and the haggard, white¬ 
faced silent man who was constantly at our heels—Mr. 
Withered himself. Right there the hunt for Gladys 



300 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


Witherell became a personal matter with each and every 
one of us—just as personal a matter as it was with her 
husband. 

This day merged into the next and that in turn into 
another, and still no word came from the kidnapers. We 
began to feel firmly assured that our original supposition 
was correct—that the brains of the kidnaping ring was 
dead, and that their hostage was tied helplessly in some 
back room, unable to send us word. We combed deserted 
shacks, the back rooms of lodging houses and scores of 
dwellings in all parts of the county without a clue. It 
was the most disheartening thing ever undertaken. 

The third day following, a newspaper reporter got 
on the trail of the $20,000 ransom letter which we had 
not given out to the press. He hounded us for a copy 
of it. Then and there was born an idea which I pre¬ 
sented to my associates and which met with their instant 
cooperation. It was a bit of intended psychology—a fake 
ransom note. We would have that printed in the hope 
that the real kidnapers, if they w r ere alive, would see it 
and be trapped into a denial—an attempt to protect their 
own ransom interests. 

With all parties agreed on the possibility that the 
Witherell kidnapers might be “smoked out” by this 
means, I drafted the following letter: 

“Your wife is safe. Don’t worry until you hear fur¬ 
ther from me. Have $50,000 cash ready, as you will 
hear from me again soon. Don’t notify police or detec¬ 
tives, or all is lost.” 

The trap worked better than we anticipated. Hardly 
had the letter—the fake ransom letter—been printed 
when Witherell received another letter in the handwrit¬ 
ing of the first, telling him not to pay any attention to 
“the crooks that want $50,000,” as they were not the 
people who had his wife in captivity. The letter said the 


WITHERELL CASE 


301 


writer only wanted $20,000, and in order to prove that 
they were the ones who had Mrs. Witherell in custody, 
they would let Witherell hear her voice over the tele¬ 
phone. 

Witherell jumped at this opportunity, and acting on 
the instructions of a detective who was sitting at his el¬ 
bow, he told the telephone company that if any calls came 
to his office for him to have them “plugged in” at his 
father’s home in Hollywood. Then we began to map 
out our campaign for closing in on the kidnapers. For 
the letter had told us one thing—the secretary and the 
former partner were not the ones who engineered the 
kidnaping. On the contrary, the kidnapers were still 
alive and well. This determined, we knew what to do. 

Through the general manager, Benjamin Wright, of 
the telephone company I made arrangements to have the 
wire chief watch any and all calls for the Witherell num¬ 
ber. This done, we divided the man hunting forces into 
three divisions. Deputy Sheriff Lipps and Police Detec¬ 
tive King, and Wigginton of my office, were stationed at 
Witherell’s father’s house. Oaks, Anderson, Morgan, 
Fuentez and I undertook to watch the house of W. F. 
Krats, father of Mrs. Witherell, as well as another resi¬ 
dence belonging to James Fer Don, where we had ar¬ 
ranged to “tap” a telephone circuit over which we could 
listen to any conversation to the Witherell home. 

With the stage all set, there was nothing for it but to 
sit down and wait patiently for developments. The kid¬ 
napers had said they would permit Mrs. Witherell to talk 
over the telephone to convince her husband. It was for 
that that we waited, hour after hour. Witherell was 
everywhere, a wreck of a man, but showing heroic stam¬ 
ina and backbone when the strain under which he was 
operating was thoroughly understood. 

Sunday evening at 10:15 o’clock, the telephone rang 


302 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


in the “listening post” at the Fer Don home. I answered 
it. It was the chief operator of the main trunk on the 
wire. 

“A man has just called the Witherell home,” she said. 
“He is speaking from a public pay station in the A. & 
Z. drug store, 200 East Fifth street.” 

I made a swift calculation. That was too far away 
from us. But there was one better way. 

“Get me police headquarters,” I snapped. 

The line popped. The next instant, with the chief 
operator holding everything clear, I had Lieutenant of 
Police Roy Shy on the wire. 

We had arranged with Shy for a flying squadron at 
central police headquarters, for just such an emergency 
as this. When he heard her voice, he tumbled instantly 
that the long expected denouement had broken. 

“Where?” he asked quickly. 

“A. & Z. drug store, 200 East Fifth street,” I replied 
hurriedly. “For God’s sake, hurry.” 

Lieutenant Shy did not take time to say good-bye. 
She heard him shout something as he slammed up the re¬ 
ceiver. The next moment the flying squadron from police 
headquarters flashed out of the central station, taking the 
traffic corners at forty miles an hour. In the machine 
besides the driver were Detectives R. B. Harris, Kahl- 
meyer, Carr, Curtis and Stelzide, all heavily armed. In 
the bottom of the car, loaded and ready, lay four sawed 
off shotguns. 

The streets were comparatively deserted at that hour 
of the night. In the drug store where the telephone 
booth was located, a few patrons were buying late hour 
materials—a nurse with a prescription in her hand, an 
old lady looking at some hot water bags, a man at the 
cigar stand. Into the calm of the scene suddenly swooped 
a group of heavy set, determined men. 


WITHERELL CASE 


303 


The drug store clerks thought a holdup was in prog¬ 
ress. Four detectives appeared suddenly in the doorway. 
They ran quickly down the main aisle toward the tele¬ 
phone booth. The driver of the police car stepped into 
the doorway with a shotgun laid carelessly over his arm, 
the muzzle nicely covering the interior. A clerk slammed 
the cash register shut with a bang and ducked behind the 
counter. He was going to save his employer’s money, 
anyhow. 

The detectives halted at the booth. There was a 
man inside. At that exact moment he was just finishing a 
conversation with Witherell—a conversation in which he 
said, “Good-bye, Mr. Witherell, be sure and have the 
money tonight.” As he hung up the receiver, the door 
of the booth was jerked open, he was yanked backward 
and landed in the center of a circle of detectives. Right 
then, he knew his game was up. 

Three minutes later he was speeding to police head¬ 
quarters in handcuffs—one Arthur Carr, conspirator, 
kidnaper and central factor in the abduction of Mrs. 
Witherell, while a bunch of scared drug clerks crawled 
out from under counters and asked each other what it 
all meant and why they hadn’t been robbed. 

Half an hour later we all moved in on Carr, officially 
and otherwise. There was no third degree about our 
questioning. We wanted Mrs. Witherell, and we wanted 
her quick, and we drove that idea home about as fast as 
a crowd of detectives ever drilled a thought into any one 
person’s head. Carr held out for an hour and a half, 
and then broke down—collapsed completely. 

He confessed that there were two of them in the 
scheme, he and his cousin, Floyd Carr, and that they had 
not harmed Mrs. Witherell, but had been holding her for 
ransom. He said she was confined in a little shack four 
miles north of the little city of Corona, about forty miles 



304 WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 

from Los Angeles. He insisted that she was being well 
cared for. 

At 1 :30 Monday morning we started out to rescue 
Mrs. Withered. Floyd Carr was on guard, so Arthur 
Carr said. We took Arthur along with us to avoid blood¬ 
shed. We arrived at the shack at about 4:30 a. m. All 
lights were out, and the rain was coming down in sheets. 
It was one of the nastiest, muddiest trips imaginable. 

Sergeant Oaks of the police department took charge 
of the party, which consisted of detectives, deputy sher¬ 
iffs, private operatives and newspaper men, twenty-one 
in all. Seven of us participated in the actual raid. The 
balance of seven machine loads of armed men scattered 
around the shack, lying low in the mud. Floyd Carr 
never would have had a chance had he attempted to es¬ 
cape from the shack. 

With all in readiness and with Arthur Carr hand¬ 
cuffed securely to Detective Stelzride, we rushed the door 
of the little, dark, dismal, gloomy shack. The fastenings 
gave to the impact of Anderson, and the door burst in. 
We were in a kitchen. 

Instantly the members of the posse spread out. 
Flashlights were everywhere, setting the shadows to danc¬ 
ing. In every man’s hand was a drawn revolver or sawed 
off shotgun. 

Mrs. Withered. * * * She was sitting up in 

bed, unhurt, uninjured, but terrified by the sudden ava¬ 
lanche of men and lights. 

“Oh, Lamie, Lamie, Lamier’ 

The sound of her voice as she held out her arms to 
her husband brought a lump to every throat there. 

Captain Slayton of the detectives found a locked 
closet door. He dragged it open by sheer strength. 
There we found Floyd Carr, crouched in a corner, scared, 
nerveless, but with a ,45 in his hand. Slapton feared to 


WITHERELL CASE 


305 


shoot as Mrs. Witherell was in direct line of his fire. 
Oaks, Lipps and Anderson soon made short work of 
Carr. 

This practically ended the Witherell case. There 
were certain legal formalities later, however. Mrs. 



Mrs. Gladys Witherell and Baby Jack. 














































































































































306 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


Witherell testified that the men had not injured her in 
any way, in fact had shown her every kindness. This 
had a great deal to do with the treatment later accorded 
the prisoners. 

The men were placed on trial less than forty hours 
after their arrest. In fifteen minutes after the case be¬ 
gan, they were sentenced to life imprisonment by Judge 
Sidney N. Reeve, and were on their way to San Quentin 
—one of the quickest dispositions ever recorded in the 
California courts. 

Before they went to jail they confessed the motive, 
as far as one existed, for this strangest of all strange 
cases. They wanted $20,000, and they picked on Wither¬ 
ell because of some fancied grievance over a boat deal. 
And Mrs. Witherell, without any other reason than that, 
was made the victim of their designs. That was all 
there was to it. 

The Witherell case, once for all, sets at rest the 
allegation of theorists that behind every crime there is 
a stirring psychology. Behind the Witherell case there 
was nothing but greed, ignorance and opportunity. In 
the last element is found the open door for much of 
the unexplained crime of the world today, and which 
shows again that “Crime Doesn’t Pay.” 


THE MODERN BLUEBEARD 

PERSONAL—Would like to meet a lady of refinement, 
of some social standing and in ordinary circumstances, 
who desires to meet middle aged gentleman of culture. 

Object: Matrimony. Ans. Box No. — etc. 

OUCH were the words contained in certain adver- 
^ tisements, appearing at various times in both the 
matrimonial and other daily newspapers in the United 
States, during the years from 1915 to 1919. 

I have often wondered how many times women, see¬ 
ing this sort of an advertisement, have looked at it, 
shrugged their shoulders and said to their girl chum: 
“Let’s answer it just for fun and see who the old bird 
is.” Or perhaps their curiosity would get the better of 
them and they would even send their own or someone 
else’s picture in the hope that they would receive by 
return mail a likeness of the other party. How many 
times these little “ads” have caused many people to 
really become acquainted with their soul mate, and hap¬ 
piness reigns ever after. But, generally speaking, I 
feel this could never bring real happiness. I could 
never really believe that two persons who were total 
strangers could honestly love each other by the printer’s 
ink route. Yet, let’s follow the trail left by this method 
of courtship and see if my version of it is true. Let’s 
call the sub-title of this story “A Woman’s Love.” 

On Courtship Trail 

“My dear Mr. Watson: Last evening after I had finished 
cleaning up the house and had just sat down to rest for a 
few seconds I spied your notice of your desire to meet a lady 
of refinement. Somehow, Mr. Watson, that appealed to me. 
I wondered if you were suffering the same as I; if you, too, 


308 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


had wanted to find just some one who would share your life 
of happiness or troubles. Now, you know I never have paid 
any attention to such advertisements, but it strikes me as fate 
guided by destiny had placed that paper before me, and that 
is why I am going to answer your appeal. I seem to feel 
that I can trust you, that you will always guard and cherish 
any promise you may make me. 

“Now, to tell you about myself—I am not very old, just 
thirty-five; tall and slender, weighing 147 pounds. I don’t wish 
to flatter myself, but some people have told me that I am not 
bad looking. They say my dark hair matches my eyes and my 
teeth are even and pretty. Yes, I must tell you I have been 
married, but it was only a child’s love; I did not know what 
it really meant. I was only fifteen and he was twenty-two. 
We ran away from the little town and came to a big city (Chi¬ 
cago). He soon sluffed off the little money we saved and it 
was not long until I had to go to work in one of the big de¬ 
partment stores. Oh, how thankful I was that these big stores 
did not require trained help, because I had no money to live on 
while learning. Being rather pretty, I was made a stock girl in 
the cloak and suit department, and soon after my husband de¬ 
serted me I was sort of chaperoned by a Mrs. De Vine, the de¬ 
partment buyer. She used to tell me of all the pitfalls I would 
likely stumble into in a big city, and asked me if I would come 
to her home and live with her mother and sister. Oh, how good 
fate had been to me! The watchful, guiding hand of this old 
mother was ever by me, and the next ten years I lived to see my¬ 
self advance from the position of a lowly stock girl to that of 
head of the department. For the past ten j'ears I have saved the 
greater part of my salary, until now I own my own little home 
and have sort of retired from active work with a nice little bank 
account, which I figure will keep me moderately for a long time. 

“Now, Mr. Watson, I don’t know why I have unfolded my 
life’s history to you; you, one whom I have never seen, but I 
guess it’s just something magnetic. Then, again, perhaps it is 
fate , as I said before, or perchance it is that longing in the heart 
of a woman, a starved soul, a craving for company as God in¬ 
tended. So, Mr. Watson, please write me and tell me all about 
yourself and what you expect in a woman you would expect to 
make your wife. “Yours very truly, 

(Signed) “Mrs. Jennie Leighton, 

“-City, 


State.” 




THE MODERN BLUEBEARD 


309 


In Response 

“Mrs. Jennie Leighton: 

Your most wonderful letter just received, and I can hardly 
find words to express my sincere feeling of the high regard for 
the faith and confidence you have reposed in me. It seems as if 
the great heaven has opened and showed me for the first time in 
my life the real meaning of love. You say it was fate that has 
guided you. You say you don’t know why you have unfolded 
your life history to me, a total stranger. Why, girl of my dreams, 
I, too, have the same feeling towards you. Pray, tell me, are 
you quite sure you really don’t know me; are you quite sure that 
somewhere, somehow in this great world of the living we have 
not met? Can it be true that two souls with the same thought, 
the same object ahead, have never known each other before? No, 
my dear, that cannot be. We have felt the breath of each other’s 
very lives. It surely must be the radiation of your sweet self 
that has carried me on and on through this vast space of earthly 
existence, all to bring but one ending. That to be the ultimate 
meeting of our “starved and hungry” souls, as you say, only to 
reap that happiness as originally planned. So, sweet angel of my 
dreams, let me try in my simple way to tell you about myself, as 
you have asked. 

“I, like yourself, have just passed that middle mile-post, but 
unlike you, I have never been told that I was good looking. Per¬ 
haps, if you will allow me to say, I have certain personal traits 
which have been considered different from most of my sex. A 
difference, perhaps, that cannot just be explained, but ways that 
tell me what a woman wants; I might say loving ways, if I were 
allowed to tell them you might think me conceited. But I feel at 
this time that if I ever had an honest desire to make a girl happy 
it now has come to the surface as never before. But who, after 
reading your soul stirring letter could not find words to convince 
one that my main desire in life would be to prove to you that I 
love you, to prove to you that I would always guard and cherish 
your fondest love. Oh, sweet woman, I guess after all fate has 
even failed me in this hour of happiness to impress upon you just 
how serious I take your wonderful letter, so if you will bear with 
me I will try to tell you what little I can of myself. I have con¬ 
siderable property, and your paltry savings would never have to 
be touched unless it were to invest for you in some proposition 
or enterprise and which would double its earnings for your very 
own desires. I dare not send you my picture, because, as I said 


310 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


before, I am not the handsome kind, so please, Dear Heart, send 
me yours; yet on second thought I know what you look like. 
How could it be otherwise after reading what you wrote. Now, 
I want you to write me, and I will come to you and tell you in 
person just what my beating heart has dictated. 

So forever remaining your true soul lover, I beg to remain 
your own dear and trusted sweetheart, 

“J. P. Watson.” 

Many Victims 

Such was the tenor of many letters that passed be¬ 
tween this arch fiend to perhaps hundreds of unsuspect¬ 
ing and honest love desiring women. Of course, some 
did not fall for this “mush,” if we can call it such, yet 
others caught at the psychological moment did accept it 
as the truth. Perhaps some twenty-six. It is some of 
these I am going to tell about and how they were imposed 
upon, and later murdered by Gillum, alias Watson, later 
named “The Modern Bluebeard.” I am going to tell 
how he was brought to the bar of justice; how the same 
fate he so often wrote about turned against him and 
played a game that startled the world just a short few 
years ago. I will try to picture a story which may serve 
as a warning to our women and prevent such creatures as 
this Gillum from preying upon these love-starved souls, 
if it is possible to do so. 

On the evening of March 31, 1920, my General 
Manager, Wm. G. Hanson, and I were about to leave 
our offices to keep an appointment we had made for a 
conference at a nearby attorney’s office. The time of our 
appointment was near and we were both anxious to get 
away, when two ladies were ushered into Mr. Hanson’s 
office. One of them stated she wanted some work done, 
but had no money. She said she wanted to find out where 
her husband spent his time and said he had taken some 
$2,600 of her money to invest in a bank up north, but she 
had never been able to get anything out of him about it. 


THE MODERN BLUEBEARD 


311 


Also that he went away for several weeks at a time and 
she didn’t know what he was doing. 

Such was about the conversation that was to start an 
investigation which would unravel tangled facts, that, as 
I said before, startled the reading public of the world. 
Then again, the will of our God was to show His mighty 
power. Probably to the unbeliever, fate was to inter¬ 
cede. When and where could you expect to find a detec¬ 
tive agency which would be expected to undertake an 
investigation of this kind without money. Of course, this 
woman said she would give us part of the money we 
might recover for her, but what were the chances of get¬ 
ting it for her? Think of the days, perhaps weeks of 
shadowing necessary to uncover the slightest clue for her. 
Then, again, was it not the ordinary family trouble so 
frequently brought to our office for investigation? Yet, 
fate was to play its first card. 

As our previous appointment had to be kept, we 
called in Supt. Armstrong, of our Bureau of Identification 
and briefly explaining the case to him, told him to “dig 
into the facts and help the poor woman out.” He did 
dig into the facts, and during the days following con¬ 
ferred with myself and my general manager, Wm. G. 
Hanson. The woman said she was Mrs. Walter Andrews 
and she lived in Hollywood. She was the woman who 
did all the talking. She said she was formerly Kathryn 
Wombacher, a dressmaker, from Spokane, Washington, 
and that she married Andrews in Spokane, November 8, 
1919. She had first met him ten years before in Chicago. 
After her marriage they had moved to a little Hollywood 
bungalow. After their arrival there, Andrews told her 
he was engaged in secret service work and that he would 
have to be away from home a great deal of the time and 
for her not to worry. He did leave her for weeks at a 
time, until she began to doubt him, and when he would 


312 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


not give her any definite information about her money she 
made up her mind to have him investigated by our office. 

Fate No. 2—On Sunday, March 7, she said, he was 
away all night and on Monday, March 8, he took her 
to Catalina, and on the boat opened the mysterious black 
hand grip he always carried and showed her some Lib¬ 
erty bonds, several thousand dollars’ worth, wrapped in 
a strip of linen cloth and said they were all for her. 

Coincidences 

Now, to mention Sunday, March 7, to any of my 
men was like throwing the proverbial red flag before a 
bull, because it was on this date that two burglars rang 
the night bell at the Fifth Street Department Store about 
7 o’clock, telling the night watchman they were two Nick 
Harris detectives, and placed this store’s guardian under 
what he thought was arrest, handcuffed him, tore some 
strips of linen counter coverings, and bound and gagged 
their victim, also a sweeper upstairs, and for two hours 
stayed in the store, blew open the safe and made away 
with $32,000, a lot of Liberty bonds and private papers. 

It was this that caused Armstrong to call me again 
and tell me he believed this fellow was mixed up in the 
Fifth Street Store job. I instructed my man to go the 
limit, spare neither time nor expense to prove or disprove 
his connection with this job. 

Fate No. 3—In checking up further dates on which 
Mrs. Andrews said her husband left her, we found they 
were the same dates on which the robberies had been 
committed in banks at Hynes, Norwalk and Los Molinos, 
which naturally convinced us this fellow was one of the 
gang, and all efforts were put forth to locate our suspect, 
who, by the way, had left his wife for another brief spell. 

On the evening of April 8, Mrs. Andrews phoned the 
office that she had heard from her husband, and he was 
to meet her at the Hayward hotel at 7 :30. Armstrong, 



THE MODERN BLUEBEARD 


313 


knowing that I had gone to Gillmans Relief Springs, San 
Jacinto, to locate a girl who had for the past three years 
passed bad checks on our merchants, and all our division 
heads out of town, took up the case alone to get the pre¬ 
liminary lineup, so to speak. 

He saw the very affectionate greeting of Andrews 
with his wife, who had been instructed to act as if noth¬ 
ing had happened or that she even doubted him in the 
least. She played her part well. After the meeting he 
started to take her to supper, but stopped just long enough 
to leave his mystery grip on the sidewalk while he went 
across the street to buy a cigar. My agent, thinking he 
would have time to borrow the grip long enough to see 
what was inside, attempted to get it, when the mystery 
man came out of the store. This necessitated his aban¬ 
doning the plan for the time being. 

Hard Luck 

The husband and wife then went to Armstrong & 
Carleton’s restaurant on South Spring street for supper, 
while our agent waited. About that time two city detec¬ 
tives came along and were informed of my agent’s sus¬ 
picions, and one went in and took a U mug” of the sub¬ 
ject, as we say in police parlance, while the other said 
he had to call the office and make their usual hourly re¬ 
port. Fate for these officers was to work against them. 
Someone at Central Station was waiting for them and 
they had to go. How they must have felt afterwards 
when the real facts were told to the world—the expose 
of the biggest crime case in modern times, and they might 
have been the arresting officers. 

Armstrong, probably feeling the city police were not 
interested enough to stick with him, telephoned the sher¬ 
iff’s office, and Deputies Harvey, Bell and Robert Couts, 
who had been assisting our offices on some other cases, 
responded to the call. I wish to say here that I believe 



314 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


these officers appreciate the value of co-operation with 
any private detective agency. It is something that has 
shown itself so many times in my career and which so 
many public peace officers are prone to do. Combined 
efforts of several are far better than one lone officer 
working for selfish glory. 

All Night Vigil 

These three officers followed Andrews and his wife 
to the Kinema theatre and from there to his home in 
Hollywood. An all-night vigil was maintained, and in 
the morning Andrews suggested that his wife go with 
him for a walk into the hills just back of his house. Was 
he going to add another victim to his already long list? 
Of course, the three watchers did not at this time even 
suspect the monster of being a murderer. No, they 
wanted to talk to him about these bank jobs and the Fifth 
Street Store robbery, and wanted to see what was in that 
pigskin grip. It was well Mr. Andrews changed his mind 
after walking a short distance with his wife, as there 
surely would have been a killing, and not as he had 
planned either. Couts and Bell have for years been con¬ 
nected with the sheriff’s office of Los Angeles county and 
could be depended upon to handle this fellow had he 
made one false move. 

My agent in the meantime had entered the house 
and was trying again to get into the grip when he was 
startled by screams of Andrews, who had just been placed 
under arrest by Couts and Bell, and was fighting and 
telling the passers-by that he was being held up by bandits. 
He finally was handcuffed and taken to jail. I was 
called, and there for the first time met the now famous 
wife murderer. 

Damning Evidence 

The grip was opened, and there before our eyes lay 
the mass of evidence that later was to be the means of 


THE MODERN BLUEBEARD 


315 


putting “The Modern Bluebeard” behind the gray walls 
of San Quentin for the rest of his life. 

Seven marriage licenses, all with different names. 
Liberty bonds, women’s jewelry, deeds to real estate and 
a mass of other letters from women, some of which we 
later found to be from the anxious parents of his vic¬ 
tims, asking why they did not write, some begging for 
just a word of news, and others still believing the loved 
ones safe in the arms of their husband. 

As I go back over the days following this investiga¬ 
tion I often wonder why some hot-headed citizen hadn’t 
started a lynching party and strung this arch fiend up 
to the nearest pole, but I guess it was because our case 
had not been proved. Perhaps it was because of the 
same reason District Attorney Thomas Lee Woolwine 
had to make the recommendation he did. We had not 
proven the corpus delicti. Yet it was no fault of the of¬ 
ficers who were investigating the matter, because we all 
know that not one speck of evidence was overlooked. 
We knew the murders were committed, yet where were 
the bodies? No one knew, no one held the key to un¬ 
lock this hidden closet—no one but the man himself. 

When we asked him about all the things in the grip, 
he professed total ignorance, saying he had bought the 
grip at the Wells Fargo sale and all the stuff was in it 
at the time. What a beautiful alibi, what a wonderful 
“out” for himself he had planned! But as usual with 
all criminals, their carefully laid schemes fail just at the 
time they feel so secure, just when they think nothing 
has been left undone. Then to see this air castle crumble 
to the ground because of the one fatal slip; the slip that 
can always be found by careful investigation. Such was 
the trick that Fate No. 4 had in store for James P. (Blue- 



316 


WHY CRIMP: DOESN’T PAY 


beard) Watson, Gillum, or Andrews or whatever other 
name he had. 

Wiiat the Tablet Told 

It was a plain writing tablet, one of those carried in 
every stationery store, on which he used to have his wives 
write their names at the bottom of a blank page. He 
always managed to get it there somehow. We found 
several, and when we asked him about these names he 
would always say he found this tablet in the grip when he 
bought it. We kept digging through its pages, until along 
at the end or last sheets we found the name of Kathryn 
Wombacher. It was the name of my client, the woman 
who called at my office to have us find out why he left 
her so often, the woman who did not have any money to 
pay us. To him it was the cord that was to pull the cur¬ 
tains behind his beastly existence; to him it was the one 
thing he had overlooked. 

When confronted with this evidence he refused to say 
anything more. He knew he was trapped, he knew his 
fatal day had come. He could not bluff us further. 

Couts and Bell took him to San Diego the next day 
to open some safe deposit boxes, while my agents and I 
took two of the living wives to Santa Monica to identify 
the contents of a trunk my agent had located in a room¬ 
ing-house in that city. 

It was while going on the latter trip that a very 
strange thing happened, which has impressed me as one 
of the greatest incidents of our investigation. It will 
impress every home-loving woman, I am sure. It was 
this: We had located another living wife, a Mrs. Eliz¬ 
abeth F. Williamson, of Sacramento, who married Wat¬ 
son August 28, 1919, under the name of Harry Lewis. 
I had taken her and Mrs. Wombacker to the beach, as 
I said before, and as we were returning I was seated 
between them in the back seat, and we had just seen all 


THE MODERN BLUEBEARD 


317 



Uncovering the grave of Nina Delaney, Bluebeard’s twenty-third wife. 


the articles in the trunk, and found the blood-stained fur 
of Nina Lee Delaney, whose body we later dug up from 
a mountain grave in Imperial county, and who had mar¬ 
ried Watson December 5, 1919, under the name of 
Charles N. Harvey. Mrs. Williamson suddenly dropped 
her head and seemed about to break down, when Mrs. 
Wombacker said: “Dear, don’t give up now, when the 
officers will need our help so much. Just think how for¬ 
tunate you and I have been that we are alive and well 
and these other poor women are perhaps lying some¬ 
where out there in unknown graves.’’ 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Williamson, “I know, but I am not 
going to break down; I was only thinking, thinking how 
I used to sit up, just a short time ago, and put up jelly 
and jam and how I would always put up a jar or two in 
his grip when he would make those trips, because I knew 
he would not be able to get any at the hotels he stopped 




















318 WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 

in, and to think how ungrateful he could be to deceive 
me so.” 

Mrs. Wombacker spoke up and said: “Dearie, was 
that currant jam you made?” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Williamson. 

“Well,” said Mrs. Wombacker, “he used to bring it 
all to my house and we would eat it.” 

Can we really appreciate just how serious this really 
is, just the touch of woman’s hand, that lasting thought¬ 
fulness of a true, loving wife? 

Tries Suicide 

Meantime, Couts and Bell were having “some party” 
of their own. They had stopped the car at San Juan 
Capistrano, and, in a most mysterious manner, Watson 
secured a knife and after getting back into the machine 
succeeded in cutting his throat from ear to ear. For 
nearly twenty miles he rode thus until he could be taken 
to a hospital, where, later, he cut the arteries of his wrist. 
It seemed that the same fate was not to let his ending 
come in that fashion. After a few weeks he recovered, 
and perhaps fearing the death that mortal “man-made” 
laws would mete out to him, he planned how he could, if 
possible, prevent it. 

It was then that he called Under Sheriff Manning to 
the county hospital, and, as I was told, offered to make 
a confession if he would be granted life imprisonment in 
California. What else could the prosecuting officers do? 
What could District Attorney Woolwine gain? No evi¬ 
dence of a murder sufficient to convict in court could be 
produced. Where was any dead body? No one had 
ever seen one that proved to be a wife of Watson. So, 
what was best, convict this beast of a lesser crime and 
perhaps soon have him out of prison to practice again his 
dastardly habit on some more of our unsuspecting 


THE MODERN BLUEBEARD 


319 


women, or reason the case from every angle, and if his 
confession involved an admission of murder convict him 
and confine him to San Quentin for the balance of his 
life? Such was the problem that confronted Mr. Wool- 
wine. He could do nothing else than that which he did. 
Yet, down in my heart I know that he would willingly 
have given his right arm if he could have sent “Blue¬ 
beard” Watson to the gallows. 

Just how many wives Watson married and how many 



Bluebeard Watson receiving sentence. 













































































































































































320 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


he killed will perhaps never be known. We have record 
of some sixteen. Others say twenty-six. He confessed to 
killing seven. We believe more. So, may the great God 
in his wisdom guide the minds of the future prison officials 
of California so they will never permit this monster in 
flesh and blood again to insert an advertisement in any 
paper, stating that he would like to meet a woman of 
refinement who desires to meet a middle-aged “gentleman 
of culture.” May God forbid and protect a woman’s love. 

From the facts above given, and from the facts that 
afterwards came out at the trial, is there any other moral 
lesson to be learned that may in the future prevent any 
such similar case being flaunted before the eyes of the 
world’s reading public? If there is, I must confess I 
would rather some one of a greater mind that I possess 
try to deliver it to humanity. 


. THE OLD MAN’S VIOLIN 

ceated in the quiet seclusion of the smoking room 
^ of one of the select country clubs not far from Los 
Angeles, five prominent business men were gathered after 
making the rounds of eighteen holes, when one of them 
broke the silence. “Nick,” he said, “the life of a detective 
must surely be full of thrills and interest.” This remark 
had many times before been shot at me, and usually 
caused to be started a tale of some blood and thunder 
yarn, peculiar to my vocation. 

The conversation drifted from the topic of recent 
murder cases lately blazoned in glaring headlines in our 
daily press, to the arts and wiles of the crafty bunco 
artists, who played their game either on the shores of 
Miami or under the sunkissed skies of southern Cali¬ 
fornia. 

“Speaking of bunco games, I know of one that’s got 
the world beat.” It was—I will call him, Abe Goldin- 
smith speaking. There is hardly a resident of Los 
Angeles who does not know this shrewd and careful busi¬ 
ness man. And when he added that he was the victim, 
we just naturally stopped and wondered how it happened. 

“Shoot, Abe, and give us the low-down,” one of the 
party said, and we all settled down deep into the thickly 
overstuffed furniture, amid the blue curling smoke, which 
drifted windward only to mingle with the aroma of the 
fragrant fumes of newly opened orange blossoms. 

“Nick, you remember when we had our shop on 
Main Street. Well, it was in the early nineties. That 
was before the autos crowded and jockeyed their way 


322 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


into position with the street cars. When a little, dinky 
one-horse cab drew up to the curb, and an old man of 
about seventy opened the door, paid his bill and entered 
our store. 

“Under his arm he carried a violin case. His long 
white silver locks seemed to glisten in the warm afternoon 
sun. His once blue coat was beginning to turn an old 
rose color. The style of his tie suggested to me that he 
was a musical artist—perhaps of the old school. 

“ ‘Are you the proprietor?’ he asked of me, in a 
quaint and mellow voice. ‘I am one of them,' I snapped 
back. 

“ ‘Well, would you be so kind as to let me leave my 
violin here? I am going to Pasadena, and I am getting 
old; I am really afraid I might lose it.’ 

“I took the case, and started to place it under the 
counter, when the old man reached out his arms and said, 
‘Oh, don’t put it there, please, put in in your safe; this 
has been in my family for the past three generations, and 
was given to my great grandfather in the old country. 
I prize this above all my earthly possessions.’ 

“To satisfy the old man’s whim, I did as he asked. 
He watched me as a child would watch one with its 
cherished toy. 

“ ‘Thank you so much, I will be back later,’ he said, 
and with a stately bow he left. 

“A day, a week, a month passed and he did not 
return. I was getting anxious, thinking perhaps he had 
forgotten where he left this heirloom. Perhaps he had 
died. Many times before people had left things and 
never called for them. My thoughts were interrupted, 
when one of the clerks came into my private office, and 
said some people wanted to look at some violins. 

“I left my chair and went to the front counter, where 


THE OLD MAN’S VIOLIN 


323 


a very stylishly dressed man and woman were waiting. 
The air of wealth seemed to radiate from both. 

a ‘I would like to see something in a good violin,’ said 
the stranger. ‘When we were in Berlin a few seasons ago 
we picked up some very wonderful buys in a pawn-shop 
there, and now my wife has the old fever creeping over 
her again to dig into the archives of your sort of place, 
and wants to get a violin.’ 

“I took down several instruments from my shelves, 
ranging in price from $50.00 to $200.00. The girl 
would examine each carefully, play a few strains, only to 
pass it back, and ask for something better. I guess I 
showed her at least fifteen, in fact all I had. But none 
suited her. They thanked me for my trouble and asked 
me if I would direct them to another pawn-shop. 

“I was just about to send them down to Joe Zeman- 
ski’s, when I happened to think of the Old Man’s Violin, 
hidden in the safe. 

“ ‘Just a minute,’ I said. And more to satisfy myself 
that this instrument was all that the old man said it was, 
and also to see if these people really knew a good thing 
when they saw it, I hauled it out and told them to try 
this one. 

“With careful precision the woman ran the bow across 
the strings, and really the notes seemed sweeter than any 
I had ever heard before. She played a strain or two 
from popular operas, and said to her escort, ‘Dear, we 
will take this one.’ 

“The man asked the price, and started to reach for 
his wallet. I was in a quandary. What could I say? It 
wasn’t mine, and was not for sale. Naturally a man in 
my business should not be taken unawares and I had to 
parry for time, until my brain would telegraph my speak¬ 
ing apparatus. I answered, ‘What do you want to pay 


324 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


for an instrument?’ It was the only thing I could think 
of, perhaps force of habit. 

“ ‘Price means nothing to me, if it suits my wife,’ 
he flung back, and right away started talking in thousands. 
I finally worked him up to ten thousand dollars. Then I 
told him the violin belonged to an old master, and 
doubted very much if he would part with it. I then told 
him a beautiful story of how the great grandfather of 
Kaiser Franz Joseph had given this to the great grand¬ 
father of this old master, and I recall now how these 
two customers glanced at one another as I went on to tell 
of the history of this brown, aged, worn box. 

“Again I was stumped when they said they would 
take it at that price—$10,000. I still wondered how I 
could get rightful possession. Where could I find the 
Old Man? How could I deliver the goods? My mind 
was working in circles; I must confess I was bewildered, 
when I happened to look in the top part of the case and 
there I saw a small card. It read, ‘If found, please 
return to Nathinal Bridges, 143 N. Falling Leaf Ave., 
Los Angeles, Calif.’ 

“At last I saw a ray of hope. Gathering my busi¬ 
ness senses together, I suggested that if he would leave 
me a $1,500.00 deposit I would get in touch with the old 
music master, and try and buy the violin for them. To 
this they agreed, and gave me with his check a card on 
which his name was printed. Said they were stopping at 
the Van Nuys Hotel, and asked me to call them if I 
could make the deal. 

“Had I known in those days, the value of fast auto 
service, I would surely have called Pico Two, or some 
other taxi number, but as it was I called a hack and first 
going to the bank, and cashing the check I proceeded to 
the Falling Leaf Ave. address. 

“It took me some time to find the place, way out in 


THE OLD MAN’S VIOLIN 


325 


what is now Hollywood district. There nestling beneath 
some pepper trees, stood a straight boarded rose covered 
California house. 

“In response to my knocking, a gentle faced old lady 
came to the door. I asked if this was where Mr. Bridges 
lived. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but he is sick in bed. Won’t you 
come in?’ 

“Hat in hand, I entered the living room. There in 
the corner sat an old fashioned three cornered curio cab¬ 
inet. On the walls I saw hung oval, black walnut frames, 
containing the pictures of my music master and his wife. 

“Technical directors of today movie circles would 
surely have been in their glory, for a setting like this. 
Typically old-fashioned in every respect. I was ushered 
into a bedroom, and there propped up in pillows, sat the 
old gentleman, looking mighty like a “he” angel. 

“ ‘Well, my friend, I have been looking for you, a 
long time,’ I said. ‘I wondered what had become of you, 
and today I found the card in the case and thought I 
might find you here.’ 

“ ‘Ah, ’tis well, my good friend, but I knew my violin 
was in good hands. You see I was taken sick on the car 
and had to come home, and my good little wife has been 
taking care of me. Did you bring my violin back home 
to me?’ 

“ ‘Well, no.’ I stammered. ‘You see I was not sure 
that you lived here, and then, besides, I came to see if you 
didn’t want to sell it.’ 

“ ‘Oh, no, no, my friend, that I could never do; you 
see I have had it so long. I love that violin better than 
anything else in the world, next to my own dear wife. 
No, she would never let me part with it. When will you 
bring it back to me; I will pay you well for your trouble?’ 

“For nearly an hour I tried to argue with him. See- 


326 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


ing this impossible I tried my persuasive powers on the 
old lady. To her I unfolded this tale: 

“ ‘You see the reason I am so anxious to buy your 
husband’s violin is because my little boy of twelve has 
been taking lessons since he was six years old, and just 
yesterday he was in my store and I showed him your hus¬ 
band’s violin and he asked if he could play it just once. 

“ ‘Since then I have had no peace with him. Then 
again, after all, is it not my duty to provide my child with 
the best? I have spent money on his education and I feel 
if I can buy this from your husband I will have done my 
duty—the duty a father owes his son. Please talk to 
your husband.’ 

“The old lady re-entered the bedroom and talked for 
some twenty minutes. Coming out, with her face 
wreathed in smiles, she said, ‘For your boy’s sake, he 
will sell it. How much will you pay?’ Again my mind 
jumped to financial business. I bid $1,000. Not ac¬ 
cepted, then $2,000 and $3,000, until the price got up to 
$7,500. He accepted, and he asked if the old lady could 
go back with me and get the money? I was glad. ‘Sure,’ 
I said, ‘and I will send her back in the hack, tool’ It 
meant for me just $2,500 profit. Didn’t I already have 
the $1,500 on deposit and the $10,000 offer? 

“On the way to town the wife told me how her hus¬ 
band would miss his violin, but that she had always been 
the business part of her family and he was the artist. 

“At the bank I paid her and sent her back rejoicing. 

“Now to close the deal! I phoned the Van Nuys 
and asked for Mr. Charles Atherton, Room 321. The 
clerk said they were not in just then, but would be back 
later. He said they had gone to Mount Lowe and might 
stay all night at Alpine Tavern. 

“Knowing how pleased the little wife would be to get 
the violin, I called on Long Distance, The Alpine Tav- 


THE OLD MAN’S VIOLIN 


327 


ern. ‘Is this you, Mr. Atherton?’ I asked when the phone 
rang. ‘Yes,’ was the reply. 

“ ‘Well this is Mr. Goldinsmith, and I have made the 
deal. I am sorry to bother you now, but thought your 
wife would enjoy the sunrise from Mount Lowe so much 
better tomorrow, if she knew she could have the violin 
when she came back.’ 

“ ‘Fine, Mr. Goldinsmith. I congratulate you on 
putting it over, and we will be back tomorrow afternoon. 
How late is your store open?’ he asked. 

“ ‘I’ll be here until 10 :00 p. m.,’ I said. 

“ ‘Great Mr. Goldinsmith, keep the violin in the 
safe until you see me.’ 

“Now, fellows, that’s the story—I still got the violin. 

“They never came back. An empty trunk and a few 
toilet articles on the dresser were all the detectives ever 
found; we did hear that a father and mother and son and 
daughter-in-law were seen going through the turnstile at 
the Santa Fe depot the same day I phoned to Mount 
Lowe. 

“I am still out just $6,000, less $1,500, the real price 
of the Old Man’s violin; also, the two trips of the little 
cabby to that rose covered cottage, and the phone call 
to Alpine Tavern; and the worst of it all is, my boy don’t 
play a violin.” 

Reaching for his golf bag, Abe said: “Let’s go out 
and play another nine holes.” 


MURDER OF FATHER HESLIN 


TN ONE of my earlier stories of this series, I recounted 

the opinion of Jimmy the Rat, concerning his views 
on the subject of circumstantial evidence. How at one 
time in his life, this sort of evidence might have been 
the cause of his unhappy ending by the legal hanging 
route. Yet, Jimmy was not only innocent of the crime 
for the murder of a prominent banker but actually never 
saw this banker, either dead or alive. Still, circumstances 
were such that Jimmy was the only possible person who 
could have committed the crime. He was robbing the 
home of this man at the exact instance of the banker’s 
death. He was seen leaving the place; was arrested in 
the front yard and had the plunder from his job on his 
person. He spent many fearful hours in prison and won¬ 
dered how Fate had played such an unjust prank on him. 

Investigation later revealed that this banker met his 
death by a most strange accident. He had gotten up 
early to catch a train and had gone to the bath room to 
shave. In pulling an electric light chain to get more light, 
he received a shock which caused his right arm to jerk 
back just as his razor was passing over his throat, cut- 
ing his jugular vein and resulting in his instant death. 

It is cases like these which causes the average person 
to shy at convictions involving circumstantial evidence. 
We fear the unjust punishment of a fellow-being as a 
result. We think how many times in after years a con- 
science-stricken soul turns up and admits the murder for 
which the poor victim, through hasty action of some 
courts, has paid the price with his life. 


MURDER OF FATHER HESLIN 


329 


On the other hand, cases have come before the bar of 
justice in which no eye-witness has ever testified to the 
actual killing, yet circumstances were so clearly brought 
out by the prosecuting officers, it left no doubt whatever 
in the minds of those who knew all the facts. 

Such was the case in the Larson murder a few years 
ago in the pretty hills of Casa Verdugo. The Luitgerth 
affair in Chicago wherein the murderer dissolved the 
mutilated body of his wife in his sausage making ma¬ 
chine tanks. Now in this story I am going to tell the 
strange and bizarre circumstantial facts connected with 
the murder of Father Patrick Heslin which tied such 
tight knots around William A. Hightower that he was 
sentenced to life in San Quentin penitentiary. 

Priest Receives Call 

Nestling in the shadows of the Catholic church in 
the Parish at Colma, California, stands the little cottage 
occupied by this unfortunate priest and his housekeeper. 
Lights in his study plainly showed this gentleman busy 
over his papers, drafting his next Sunday’s sermon, when 
about 9:15, the night of August 2, 1921, an auto was 
heard to stop in front of the house and shortly the door¬ 
bell tingled the message that a visitor was calling. 

The housekeeper answered the bell and was met by a 
strange man who inquired for Father Heslin. The holy 
man came to the door and was told that a man of his 
parish was dying and would he not come and give the 
last rites. Reaching for his hat and necessary vestments, 
Father Heslin rushed out with the stranger on the mercy 
call. The machine was heard rumbling away and the 
housekeeper again returned to her unfinished duties. 
This was the last time she ever saw her master alive. 

Twelve, one, two and three o’clock passed, still the 
priest did not return. Realizing the nature of the call, 
the housekeeper was not unusually alarmed so retired to 


330 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


her bedroom. However, on the following day when he 
had not returned she began to worry and reported the 
matter to her church officials and they in turn reported 
the facts to Chief Daniel O’Brien of the San Francisco 
police. He placed the matter in the hands of that master 
officer, Captain Duncan Mathewson who was in charge 
of the Detective Bureau. The hunt for Heslin was im¬ 
mediately started. 

On the second morning the bay city residents were 
startled with the news displayed in glaring headlines on 
the front pages of the great dailies of this metropolis, 
telling of the receipt of a ransom letter addressed to St. 
Mary’s Cathedral. It was not directed to anyone in 
particular but simply to St. Mary’s Cathedral. 

Archbishop Hanna had delivered it to the police. 
It was a scrawly printed envelope and great attempt had 
been made to disguise the writer’s handiwork. The con¬ 
tents of the letter was typewritten and many phrases of 
it plainly showed that the sender was not such an ignorant 
person as might be supposed or intended to convey. 

The Demand Letter 

August 3, 1921. 

Act with caution for I have Father of Colma in bootleg cellar 
where a lighted candle is left burning when I leave. At bottom 
of candle are all the chemicals necessary to generate enough poison 
gas to kill a dozen men. 

As he is fastened with chains you will see that he is in a very 
bad way and if I am arrested or bothered in any way I will leave 
him just where he is and in two hours from the time I leave him 
he will be dead. The candle will not burn more than an hour 
and a half after I leave him for I cut it at that length. 

If the door is opened to this cellar by anyone except myself, it 
will ignite a bunch of matches and upset a can of gasoline on top 
of him, and the entire police force and all your damn knights 
would not be able to get the chains off of him before he would 
burn to death. 

So the one best bet is for you to get the sixty-five hundred dol- 


MURDER OF FATHER HESLIN 


331 


lars in fives, tens, twenties, fifties and hundreds and be sure there 
is none higher than that and that there is no marks on them for if 
anything arouses my suspicion, I will have him die right where he 
is. I had charge of a machine gun in the Argonne and poured 
thousands of bullets into struggling men and killing is no novelty 
to me; besides it will be your own bunch that will kill him if you 
do not do just as you are told. 

Get the $6,500 in unmarked bills in package and seal it for the 
two men who will handle it before it gets to me; they think it 
is dope, so don’t leave it unsealed or it might not reach me after 
you have sent it. 

Have car ready with spotlight and you will get instructions 
which road to take and you will turn the spotlight upward and 
drive slowly until you see a white strip across the road. Then 
stop, get out with the money, leave car and follow the string that 
is attached to white strip until you come to end of string. Then 
put down package and go back to town and remember your brother 
does not get out until I have the money and am in the clear be¬ 
sides an . . . (here are about eighteen words undecipherable 

by being smeared with ink) . . . and he is complaining of 

the pain when he is not gagged so he cannot make a complaint. 
Better have a doctor ready with you, and be at the house where 
he lived, and wait for the instructions messenger with the instruc¬ 
tions what road to take. Remember! Just one man in that car, 
and he had better be careful for if he looks suspicious he will be 
tagged with a hand grenade, as have six of them ready for any 
treachery. 

And the waiting man will not be seen at all, and he will not 

see the man to whom he passes the package and the second man 

gives it to me. But remember, if the cops are notified or any move 
made that will make it dangerous for me, I will not send you the 
instructions how to find him and release him. Besides if this be¬ 
comes public it will be seen how easy it is to trap your bunch of 
imposters, and others will go and do likewise. 

“Nuff sed. It’s up to you.” 

You will get the message about 9 o’clock at night, perhaps to¬ 
night, perhaps tomorrow night. 

The following is printed in ink: 

Had to hit him four times and he is unconscious from pres¬ 
sure on brain, so better hurry and no fooling. Tonight at 9 

o’clock. 


332 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


As a result of the receipt of this letter much comment 
was naturally caused; much speculation was rife. Some 
thought the Black Hand of Mafia was again at work and 
then some wondered if Heslin had a past. How unjust 
the public always is pending the uncovering of the truth! 
The usual number of anonymous tips were sent to the 
police and all had to be run down. It took lots of Capt. 
Mathewson’s time for nothing was overlooked that had 
been suggested. 

The world was wondering, when after seven days had 
passed and no other word was received from the kid¬ 
naper for surely Father Heslin had been kidnaped and 
was being held for ransom of $6,500. 

/ 

Detective Receives Call 

I had just opened a branch of our offices in San Fran¬ 
cisco when my secretary notified me that I was wanted 
on the phone. 

“Harris speaking,” I answered. 

“Is this you, Nick?” came from the other end. “This 
is North—come right over to the office.” 

John North was the news-editor of the San FYancisco 
Bulletin. He and I were reporters on Los Angeles pa¬ 
pers together, long years before I ever dreamed I would 
follow the sleuthing profession. He stuck to the news 
game and has proven one of the greatest feature writers 
in the newspaper world. 

The smell of newspaper ink greeted me as I swung 
open the door to the editorial rooms. Johnny was 
humped, shirt sleeved over the city desk, shooting copy 
to various scribes; penciling stuff before him and receiv¬ 
ing telegraph copy all at the same time. He looked up, 
saw me and said: “Nick, Major Pickering wants to see 
you.” (He was the managing editor.) North kicked 
back his chair and led the way. 


MURDER OF FATHER HESLIN 


333 


“Nick,” the Major said, “North has a hunch and 
wants you to help find Father Heslin. Can you do it?” 

Could I do it? It seemed the impossible. I, almost 
a stranger in that “wonder” city. There confronted with 
the mighty in the newspaper field. Then again, if I failed 
to make good for these people, I was doomed. All these 
thoughts passed like a whirlwind through my befuddled 
brain, when good old North came to my rescue by stat¬ 
ing: 

“Nick, for seven days Heslin has disappeared and 
we have rehashed all the dope until I am ashamed to let 
our paper hit Market Street. Now if we can inject you 
into this mess, it will be something new and you will get 
a million dollars’ worth of advertising for your San Fran¬ 
cisco office. But remember you are employed by the Bul¬ 
letin and no leaks.” 

I saw one grand ray of hope. No other detective 
ever had a better chance. “Sure, Major, I will do my 
best”—and I meant it; but what could I do to get a start? 

“All right, Harris, you and North for it,” said Mr. 
Pickering. 

We left his office and returned to the clatter of the 
typewriters in the big room over which John was boss. 
North told me all the facts of the case to date, in sub¬ 
stance the same as aforementioned. 

“Will Captain Mathewson work with us?” I asked. 

“Sure he will. He is one of the best Dicks in the 
game,” said North. “I will give you a card to him and 
tell him that you are coming and represent this paper. 
Now, what’s your lead?” 

Again I thought of what would happen to me if I 
failed. I must hit on some logical plan and try to work 
it out. “Johnny,” I said, “what do you think of this 
scheme?” I told him what I had in mind, and he said, 
“Great, go tell it to Mathewson.” 


334 WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 

Meets Chief of Police 

As I hopped off a Kearney Street car a few minutes 
later in front of the Hall of Justice, a pile of masonry 
with its cell houses some ten stories up, I wondered just 
how I would be received by these real Metropolitan cop¬ 
pers. Yet, they had always been kind and courteous to 
my agents in times past and they knew I had always co¬ 
operated with the police in cities we ever worked in, so 
I thought perhaps they would listen to my plan. 

I was first ushered into the private office of Chief 
O’Brien who gave me the hand of welcome right from 
the start and said he would call Mathewson. 

We three gathered around a table and I unfolded my 
scheme as follows: “Gentlemen, please don’t think that 
I am coming here from any paper or other city to try and 
tell you how to work this case. I have been officially sent 
here to render such aid and co-operation that my past 
experience affords. I do not know how to make a cake 
or pie but if I ever made a cake and when finished, 
I found it fell in the center, I would know that I had left 
out something and the next time I would not make the 
same mistake. Just so in this case, as you gentlemen 
know, we in Los Angeles just finished a kidnaping case 
there, that of Mrs. Gladys Withered. All our law forces 
banded together. Detective Sergeants Edward King and 
Louis D. Oaks, and of the police department, Walter 
Lipps, and William Anderson of the Sheriff’s Office who 
had charge of the investigation for their offices, co-oper¬ 
ated with my agency which had been employed by the 
Withered family. There was never a moment of selfish 
glory displayed by any of us. We ad pulled together. 

“Now in this case I notice several similar phrases in 
the Demand Letter you have received and the last one re¬ 
ceived by Mr. Withered which read as follows: 


MURDER OF FATHER HESLIN 335 

WlTHERELL RANSOM NOTE 

“Mr. Wither ell: After following up the differ¬ 
ent leads the police haven t found where Gladys is 
located so you see it is no use for them , they have 
nothing to work on so if you are going to meet the 
demands and will go out Valley Boulevard until 
you come to a red light lying on the ground leave 
the money in a bundle ivell wrapped, turn around 
and go back to the city and in less than ten hours 
Gladys will be home, that is if you do so alone and 
dont try to catch the ones sent for the money as 
they could not give you any information where she 
is and it would only make the amount demanded 
raised at least half which would have to be payed 
anyhow. Follow the above instructions and every¬ 
thing will be O. K.” 

The letter was unsigned. After reading this, I said: 
“In the early part of the case, Mr. Withered received the 
first ransom letter demanding $20,000. We figured that 
if we could withhold this letter and give out another let¬ 
ter demanding more money, we would confuse the minds 
of the kidnapers and they would do something they would 
not otherwise do and expose themselves. We wrote a 
letter demanding $50,000 and it had the desired effect. 
As soon as the kidnapers saw the contents of this letter in 
the press, they hurried a letter to Mr. Withered, telling 
him to pay no attention to the party who wrote the 
$50,000 letter, as they were only a bunch of crooks try¬ 
ing to collect the money and did not have his wife, but 
they had her and would let him (Withered) hear her 
voice over the phone. This gave us the tip and we ar¬ 
ranged with the Telephone Company and covered the 
phones. After three days of waiting and with the aid of 
those wonderful telephone operators at Central and Hol¬ 
lywood exchanges, we were able, with the further help 
of the flying police squadron, to land Floyd Carr as he 


336 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


was talking to Mr. Witherell on the phone at 10:15 the 
Sunday night following. Now, gentlemen, if we can put 
over some such similar stunt we will interrupt the plans 
of Father Heslin’s captors and they may do something 
that will uncover themselves.” 

Capt. Mathewson thought so well of the plan that 
he called one of his lieutenants in and it was decided that 
I would write a letter demanding $15,000, addressing it 
to Archbishop Hanna. Then have him give it out to 
the press. 

We called on his grace, the Bishop, and he consented 
to the scheme. It was understood that he was also to 
give out a statement that he did not believe the first let¬ 
ter asking for $6,500 was authentic, as we feared dam¬ 
age might have been done in publishing the original let¬ 
ter, as the kidnaper would know he could not deal in con¬ 
fidence any longer. Then again, this first demand letter 
had been addressed only to St. Mary’s Cathedral, as I 
mentioned before, while our letter was to be sent to the 
highest church official and the kidnapers would now know 
just who they were to deal with. 

Let me interrupt my story for just a minute. Some 
might say it is not good policy for me to expose the man¬ 
ner of catching these crooks but permit me to explain that 
this has already been done at the time of arrest of the 
Witherell kidnapers, as well as Hightower. Then again, 
no matter how often or how careful these evildoers plan 
their nefarious doings, they will always leave an opening 
through which the long arm of Justice will reach in and 
take away the prize they were striving so hard to get. 

We then left the Bishop’s home and J was delegated 
to write a mystery note. Seated in one of the musty offi¬ 
ces of the city jail I penned the following: 


MURDER OF FATHER HESLIN 


337 


The Fake Letter 

“Archbishop Hanna: 

^ “Dont be surprised to get this. It is to tell you 
Father Heslin is not dead. Neither is he injured 
yet. Fate has made me do this. Sickness and mis¬ 
ery have compelled my action. I must have money. 

Please forgive this act if you can. 

“Have $15,000 CASH READY. 

“You will hear from me very soon. 

“The manner in which this is to be paid will be 
revealed to you in my own way VERY SOON. 

In fact now that the excitement has died down , 

Father Heslin is safe and says for you to help him. 

“Have money ready for my future instructions. 

You will hear from me VERY SOON. 

“You will know Fm the right person if I will 
have the piece of paper that fits to this letter.” 

The letter was torn off diagonally on the right lower 
hand corner. This letter was also unsigned and was to 
be smuggled under the door of the Bishop’s office by my 
agent, Lieutenant Claude Morgan. In the morning it 
was to be found by his Grace’s secretary, James Cant¬ 
well, and delivered to the Bishop, who in turn was to give 
it out to the press. 

As soon as the letter was penned, I hurried to the 
Bulletin office and reported our success. It must not be 
overlooked that this was to be a scoop for the paper I 
represented. Now as I look back I deeply appreciate 
the serious position this procedure would place Chief 
O’Brien and Captain Mathewson in. How were they to 
explain to our rival journals how this letter was first pub¬ 
lished in our paper which was on the streets just one-half 
hour before any other competitive sheet. O’Brien stood 
the gaff fine and naturally had to pass the buck or blame 
to Mathewson. I think it got me in rather bad with the 
Captain afterward as the papers sure were hot about the 
deal. Yet, after all, these men, including the rival edi- 


338 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


tors, were all big men and any other paper would have 
done the same thing if Fate had so ordained. So, if 
Captain Mathewson reads this story, he will know I 
deeply felt his position. 

The next day all the afternoon papers flooded Mar¬ 
ket Street with extras concerning this new break. Of 
course our paper claimed only the glory of the scoop, 
nothing more. Later developments might give them the 
real crack they were waiting for. 

Hightower Shows Up 

The first extras were out about ten o’clock that morn¬ 
ing, our paper one-half an hour ahead of the rest. 
Less than ten hours later, a gaunt, wiry fellow was seen 
loitering around St. Mary’s Cathedral and was trying to 
see the Archbishop. He had inquired for him but just 
why he did not get to him perhaps we shall never know. 
He was possibly one of hundreds. 

Again the genius of news gathering showed its hand. 
A reporter on the San Francisco Examiner had been sta¬ 
tioned at the Cathedral and was told to cover the spot 
and learn what he could. There were detectives, both 
police and private, there also. 

The reporter saw this fellow and heard him ask for 
the Bishop. It was a hunch, or “that something” which 
comes over a reporter in times like that. He warmed up 
to the fellow and asked what he had. 

“I know where Father Heslin is buried and I want 
to see the Bishop,” he answered, or some such similar 
statement. That was sufficient for this news hound. He 
weaned the fellow away from the Bishop’s study and into 
the Examiner’s office where the fellow told an amazing 
story of how he met a girl of the streets and she had told 
him of how she had met an Italian who carried a gun 
which caused her to shrink with fear and she asked the 
Italian why he carried it. The Italian said, “It had 


MURDER OF FATHER HESLIN 


339 


killed a man and he had buried the body but a man cook¬ 
ing flapjacks was guarding it.” He said, “It was on the 
cliffs of Salada Beach.” 

Hightower (as he said that was his name) further 
told the newspaper men that he had gone to Salada Beach 
after hearing this story and thought he had found the 
grave and could take them to it. 

The journalist in charge called Chief O’Brien, pho¬ 
tographer’s staff, writers and police to accompany High¬ 
tower. It was nearly midnight or perhaps later when the 
little party, now including Constable Landini of Colma 
who they picked up on the way, left their autos on a spot 
at the boulevard where they saw one of the Albers signs 
(the picture of the miner cooking flapjacks over a fire). 
They plunged into the sandy waste, led by Hightower to 
a spot, nearly three quarters of a mile from the road, 
until they came to one of the hundreds of little crevices 
high up in the palisades that border the ocean in this sec¬ 
tion. 

By lantern light they started digging, Hightower 
more active than the rest. He was pushing his shovel 
quite deeply in a spot when Landini cautioned him to be 
careful as he might hit the dead priest in the face. With¬ 
out a second’s hesitation, Hightower answered, “No, this 
is where his feet lie.” 

That one remark; that telltale sentence. Yes, it was 
to have a lot to do with another sentence later. Landini 
said nothing more then, but he did a lot of thinking, as 
did all the rest of the party. 

They found the unfortunate priest; his coat had been 
removed; a blood clot showed at the base of his brain 
where a bullet had entered, shot by his assassin from be¬ 
hind, perhaps when he was told that the dying man that 
he was coming to see was down in the tent covered pit, 


340 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


which was afterward to be his own tomb. Such was the 
finding of Father Heslin. 

His body was taken back to the big city; a sorry cor¬ 
tege followed. As a result of Hightower’s thoughtless 
remark, the finger of suspicion was gradually rising. He 
was questioned. Hightower said he wanted the $8,000 
reward offered by the church for the finding of the body 
of Father Heslin. A possible motive for the crime. He 
knew a reward would be offered, for once before he had 
received a reward for finding a dead body. 

Mathewson and District Attorney Brady and Assis¬ 
tant District Attorney Golden of San Francisco conferred 
with O’Brien and District Attorney Franklin Swart of 
San Mateo county. They decided to check his story. 
Meantime, where was the girl who told Hightower? She 
could not be found but they searched his room and there 
found a tent; two stakes were missing. Two stakes had 
been found in the grave of Father Heslin. Sand in the 
folds of the tent was analyzed and it was the same as 
that found in the crevice grave at Salada Beach. 

An improvised machine gun was also found in the 
closet of Hightower’s room. A machine gun had been 
mentioned in the demand letter. On his bed was a copy 
of the first extra edition of the paper I represented. 

He was arrested on suspicion for his story did not 
check. The police found the typewriter he had used in 
his demand letter; they found the auto he had rented 
and it registered just the exact number of miles to Salada 
Beach and a drive he said he had taken with this so-called 
“dream girl.” He tried to have this dream girl swear 
that he was with her on this fateful night. This girl was 
finally found and she was the only Dolly Mason he knew 
but she would not lie for him. She told the truth; how 
she had left him about 7 :30 or 8 o’clock on this night at 


MURDER OF FATHER HESLIN 


341 


the corner of Market and Powell streets, after a short 
drive. That would have given him plenty of time to 
have gone to that little parish home at 9:15. 

Such was most of the evidence—all circumstantial. 
He was convicted and sentenced to life, perhaps be¬ 
cause some of the jury were also skeptical about that sort 
of evidence. Perhaps they would rather give him the 
benefit of the doubt, as long as he was not to be hanged. 
Perhaps that is why our state must support him. Per¬ 
haps that is why Jimmy the Rat was skeptical. 

As for my making good to Major Pickering and Mr. 
North, I will leave that to the reader. I hope my fake 
letter really had the effect we thought it would. I hope 
Hightower saw the story and fearing some one was going 
to get the money, tried to gain an interview with the Arch¬ 
bishop and bumped into that enterprising reporter, whose 
name I am sorry I cannot remember, but who, in the 
opinion of Mr. North, only strengthened our theory, but 
nearly wrecked a darn good yarn for the Bulletin. 

Great credit should be given District Attorney Swart 
for the masterful way he handled the prosecution of this 
famous case, as it was considered one of the most hotly 
contested legal battles in the criminal history of Cali¬ 
fornia. 


FRIDAY, THE THIRTEENTH 


/ TP HERE is a queer cabalism in numbers—in the value 
of numbers, in the association of numbers with 
events. The ancients held that numbers were every¬ 
thing. Later this was forgotten, to be again revived to¬ 
day in the light of new spiritual growth. Now there are 
many who are asking what really lies in numbers. What 
do they mean? Why are some numbers bad and others 
good? Where lies the necromancy of their power? 

To those who have long dealt with crime in its varied 
and complex phases, come, retrospectively, long chains 
of circumstances closely connected with numbers, the fig¬ 
ure “13” stands out oddly malignant—oddly connected 
with strange bizarre crimes. French literature notes the 
“mysterious 13“ of its inner police history. German 
superstition marks “13“ as a negative combination. 
With Hindu and Aztec, Chinese and early Aryan—there 
is the queer avoidance of this odd association of “1“ and 
“3“ that stirred even the oldest Jewish races. 

Scoffers pooh-pooh this idea, and yet they listen half 
credulously to tales of evil that have followed in the path 
of “13“ wherever it goes. Confronted with criminal rec¬ 
ords, they stand abashed. For more murders have hap¬ 
pened or are associated with the figure “13“ than with 
any other date in history. One such which opens the field 
of widest speculation is the famous Larson case in Casa 
Verdugo, near Los Angeles, in which' Friday, the thir¬ 
teenth, 1913, played a conspicuous and dramatic part. 

The story begins on Sunday, June 22, 1913, on a 
Sunday such as only the Southern California weather man, 


FRIDAY, THE THIRTEENTH 343 

long versed in tourist attraction, can construct with sea¬ 
sonal perfection. Along the foothill range which shel¬ 
tered the little hamlet of Casa Verdugo, “loveliest village 
of the plain,” the golden light filtered through the trees 
and dripped upon the grass beneath like molten ingots. 
The air was fresh with the fragrance of sage, and honey¬ 
suckle and wild flowers. 

There was a picnic in Casa Verdugo that day. Happy 
groups scattered over the hills, searching for flowers, 
singing and dancing over the sward. One pair—a boy 
and a girl—became separated from the rest. There was 
a shady rustic path that led into a sheltered canyon. A 
few steps along the rocky bed and they came to a nook 
formed by overhanging trees. 

“Let’s sit here awhile,” said the girl dreamily. 

The man sank by her side. There was absolute still¬ 
ness there—the stillness of a summer day, broken only 



“Let’s sit here awhile!” said the girl. 











344 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


by the shrill of myriad insects and wood folk. As they 
sat motionless and quiet— 

The groan of a woman—! 

The girl jumped to her feet in terror. There was 
something queer about the note. It was a gagging, 
strangling groan. The girl and boy stared at each other. 
Then by common consent they began to search the under¬ 
brush. 

The groaning continued for a second and then 
stopped altogether with a queer muffled cry that turned 
their blood cold. The sound only increased the deter¬ 
mination of the young couple to solve the mystery. The 
boy went ahead, a heavy stick clenched in his hand. 

Suddenly the girl gave a sharp scream and pointed. 
The boy followed her outstretched finger. There, within 
a few feet of the spot on which they stood were the feet 
and legs of a woman projecting from a clump of brush. 

Investigation disclosed the murdered remains of a 



Within a few feet of the spot, lay the body of a woman! 







345 


FRIDAY, THE THIRTEENTH 

woman about forty years old. There was every evi¬ 
dence that the killing had been of the most fiendish 
nature. The body lay on its side. The skull had been 
literally smashed to pieces by some blunt instrument. The 
woman’s hair was matted with fresh blood and her cloth¬ 
ing badly torn. On all sides were evidences of a terrific 
struggle. 

Mastering his repugnance, the boy knelt and laid his 
hand upon the woman’s breast. It was still warm. They 
knew then that while they had sat in the little glen, 
steeped in the romance of the golden day, this unfortu¬ 
nate unit of human life had died within a few feet of 
them. For there was no doubt in the world but that the 
woman was dead. 

“I will notify the authorities,” said the boy. 

Together they ran back and gathered the rest of the 
picnic party, telling them what had happened. There was 
a rural telephone line in a nearby farmhouse and within 
a few minutes the wires were singing with the result of 
the Casa Verdugo murder—the brutal killing of a de¬ 
fenseless woman in the lonely foothills outside of Los 
Angeles. Within an hour the sheriff and coroner were 
on the spot and the merciless wheels of justice had taken 
up their restless grind. 

Quick examination of the dead woman revealed a 
fragment of a broken gold chain around her neck—a 
chain that had once held a watch in all probability. There 
was no trace of the watch around the body and the bal¬ 
ance of the chain was missing. But the tiny fragment 
furnished a clue—the only clue—that developed at that 
time. 

The body of the dead woman was taken to the morgue 
in Los Angeles. Curious hundreds called to view the 
remains in an effort to identify her. Hundreds more 
tramped the hills near Casa Verdugo, over the spot where 


346 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


the crime had been committed, searching for souvenirs 
with all the avidity that characterizes certain perpetually 
morbid elements of our modern civilization. It seemed 
probable that had the officials overlooked any of the ear¬ 
lier clues, they must have been destroyed by this stam¬ 
pede over the scene of the crime. 

For three days the woman lay at the morgue, while 
curious throngs passed and repassed the body in an effort 
at recognition. In the meantime the girl’s clothing was 
turned over to me, on account of my policing department 
stores, in the hope that some identification might be made 
there. The hat I found had been purchased at a local 
department store, but no record of the purchaser had been 
kept. With the corset we developed what seemed like a 
clue. 

The corset was a style No. 407, H. & W. manufac¬ 
ture, size 24. Two of this style had been sold in Los 
Angeles—one to a woman whom we found alive and well 
and the other to an unidentified woman, of whom no one 
had a record. It seemed probable, therefore, that this 
had been the murdered woman, although a canvass of the 
clerks in the corset department failed to reveal any who 
recalled selling a corset to a person of the dead woman’s 
description. 

The days slipped along, with the police at sea and 
the identification unmade. Now and then someone would 
wander into the morgue, take a look at the body and give 
an exclamation. 

“Why, I know her. That is Mrs. So-and-So.” 

Detectives would rush and find Mrs. So-and-So alive 
and the identification would, in police parlance, “blow 
up.” 

Among the details that had been noted on the dead 
body was the absence of a wedding ring. A close exami¬ 
nation of the fingers of the left hand, however, by the 


FRIDAY, THE THIRTEENTH 


347 


autopsy surgeon revealed the fact that there had been a 
ring there, but that it had been stripped from the finger 
some time before death. 

The police paid little attention to the absence of the 
ring. But the circumstance made a deep impression on 
one of my operatives—Frank Grey, a live wire, who had 
the reputation of using his head on occasion. Grey had 
once known of a case where the identification pivoted on 
a wedding ring. The missing ring kept bothering him. 
One day he called me on the telephone from Glendale, 
which is a small town near Casa Verdugo. 

“Nick,” he said, “what do you say if we go out and 
have another look at the spot where the body was 
found?” 

“What do you expect to find?” I asked him. 

“I don’t know,” he replied, “but that missing ring— 
you know, we might find that ring there. It wouldn’t 
do any harm.” 

“All right, Frank,” I replied. “I’ll come out in the 
machine this afternoon and we’ll give it the once over. 
What is this—a hunch?” 

Grey laughed. 

“Perhaps,” he said. “Anyhow, I want to see the 
spot.” 

With nothing more as a motive for the trip than the 
gossamer filament of Grey’s intuition, we proceeded to 
the scene of the murder. As we rode along, Grey talked 
about the case. 

“You know,” he said, “if we find the ring there might 
be a set of Initials in it—” 

There was a chance of that, of course. We had my 
wife, my agent Bob Albert, Jimmy Pope of the Herald 
along—Jimmy of the “big stuff,” who thought in head¬ 
lines and talked in brevities. 

“Eight column stuff!” he remarked. 



348 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


“What is?” I questioned. 

“That ring,” he chuckled. “That is, if you get it.” 

That was just it. If we got it. And we didn’t. 

It was a dull, drizzly day—a queer foggy, overcast 
sky contributing to the general gloominess of the situa¬ 
tion. Grey, Pope and I climbed out of the machine and 
poked about in the underbrush until we found the spot 
where the murdered woman had lain, trampled down 
now with the marks of hundreds of curious feet. It was 
not a promising prospect, and yet how often does a de¬ 
tective have a promising prospect on which to work? 

There seemed nothing there which would in any way 
furnish an additional clue to the woman’s identity. We 
examined every stick and stone within a score of feet of 
the spot. Finally, Albert called out to us and stood up¬ 
right. In his hand was a tiny scrap of paper no bigger 
than a dollar, on which was written some words. He 
had found this under a bush. I found more of the little 
pieces. Pope found some more—half a dozen in fact. 

Sitting down on the ground we pieced them together. 
Reconstructed, they formed a receipt. It read: 

No. . . . May 31, 1913. Received of Mr. 

Larsen, $50 for rent of . . . street for month 

ending . . . 191 

S. HICKSON. 

I looked around carefully after that, finally picking 
up a copy of a newspaper under date of Friday, June 13, 
1913—a torn, fog soaked, dirty fragment of a paper— 
just enough remaining to give us the date and the name 
of the paper itself. With this and the receipt, we returned 
to Los Angeles to pick up what seemed to be a possible 
new clue in the affair. 

Jimmy Pope went to work on a telephone directory. 
From that we learned that “S. Hickson” was a saloon 
keeper on East First Street. We called in deputies of 



349 


FRIDAY, THE THIRTEENTH 

the sheriff’s office. We called on the man, and found 
him a genial, talkative sort of person, perfectly willing 
to give us any information he possessed. Then we 
showed him the receipt. His eyes opened. 

“Why, say,” he exclaimed, “this is a receipt I gave to 
my neighbor, Larsen, who runs a barber shop next door.” 
It developed that on Saturday nights Larsen would bring 
his cash into Hickson’s place to put into the safe. Hick¬ 
son, being a careful person, always insisted on giving 
Larsen a receipt for it, which he made out on a stock 
rent receipt pad. 

“Did you give him this receipt, Saturday?” one of 
the deputies asked. 

“Yes, I did,” said Hickson. “That is, I gave him one 
like it. He must have several. Where did you get it?” 

“We found it out in the country,” we told him. 

Hickson nodded his head several times. 

“Well,” he said, “he told me he was going out into 
the country, Sunday—” 

Garfield Gillis stepped forward with his own question. 

“Did he take anything from here with him?” he 
asked. 

Hickson thought a moment. 

“A couple of bottles of beer,” he said. “Yes, that 
was it. I remember now. He bought a couple of bottles 
to take along on a trip. I wrapped them up in a piece of 
newspaper for him.” 

Grey and I exchanged glances. We had picked up 
a couple of beer bottle tops at the scene of the murder. 
Then I pulled out the newspaper dated Friday the thir¬ 
teenth. Hickson took the paper and turned it over in his 
red, spatulate fingers. Then he looked at the date. 

“That’s it,” he said. “He was in Saturday and I 
remember I wrapped the beer in the paper of the day be¬ 
fore —that would be right—Friday, the thirteenth.” 


350 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


We thanked him and went next door. Larsen was 
shaving a customer, who happened to be Detective Ser¬ 
geant Fitzgerald of the Los Angeles department, recently 
killed by Little Phil Alguin, a Mexican bandit. We 
waited until he finished. Fitzgerald, seeing the three of 
us together, tumbled that something was wrong and 
waited around. 

“Larsen,” Pope said, “we want to see your wife. 
Where is she?” 

He turned white. 

“She—she went to San Francisco, Sunday,” he said. 
“I took her to the train, myself.” 

Whatever suspicions we had in mind crystallized at 
the moment he answered the question, by the instinctive 
alibi he built up for himself. “I took her to the train 
myself,” he said, even before we had asked him a single 
question. 

“Are you sure of that, Larsen?” Pope asked. 

“Yes,” he replied. But it was not convincingly done. 

“You didn’t go out Casa Verdugo way, did you, Lar¬ 
sen?” we asked. 

“No!” he almost shouted. 

“Are you sure of that, Larsen?” Pope asked. “Bet¬ 
ter take a minute and think it over.” 

In the silence that followed I could see the beads of 
perspiration come out on his forehead. Finally— 

“I took her to the train, I told you.” 

Gillis grew restless. He started to look around the 
shop. There was a seat locker in one corner of the room, 
such as barbers customarily use for storing extra linen. 
Gillis walked over to this and lifted the seat. Larsen 
stared at him, his face the color of a death mask. Gillis 
gave him a quick look and then, diving into the locker, 
brought up some spare tow r els. In the bottom some¬ 
thing glittered. 


FRIDAY, THE THIRTEENTH 


351 


“Come here, fellows,” he said. 

We walked toward the locker. Larsen gave a fright¬ 
ened, trapped glance toward the door. Sergeant Fitz¬ 
gerald, without any cue from the men, eased his huge 
bulk directly into the doorway and stood looking at Lar¬ 
sen with an expressionless face. Gillis dived again into 
the locker and held up some object. 

It was a gold watch—a woman’s watch with a broken 
gold chain attached. 

“Ever see this, Larsen?” he asked. 

He was shaking all over now. 

“No—no,” he chattered. “I don’t know how it got 
in there.” 

“What are you shaking for, Larsen?” cut in Fitz¬ 
gerald suddenly. 

“I’m not shaking—it’s cold,” said Larsen. 

Outside the sun w r as registering 80 degrees in the 
shade. 



It was a woman’s gold watch with a broken chain. 

























































352 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


In the locker along with the watch and broken chain, 
we found a roll of films. We took these and Larsen to 
the police station and held him for investigation. The 
identification bureau took charge of the films and devel¬ 
oped them. In the dark room we got the last link that 
connected Larsen irrevocably with the brutal murder of 
his wife. 

The films were pictures of scenery around Casa Ver- 
dugo—snaps the murdered woman had taken on the day 
of her death. One was a portion of a little glen in which 
she had been beaten to death. Another was that of a 
young woman. 

In the last named we found the keynote of the mur¬ 
der. Larsen’s daughter—a little girl—gave us a clue 
to this woman’s identity, and she proved to be a young 
girl in whom Larsen was interested. She gave us every 
assistance when she discovered her connection with the 
affair and through her instrumentality much that had been 
mysterious in the affair was cleared up. 

Larsen, she said, had promised to marry her as soon 
as he secured a divorce from his wife. From the child 
we learned that the mother had had a premonition of 
her impending death. 

“If I do not come home, Mary,” she had said, “you 
will know papa has killed me.” 

The crime, as we saw it now, consisted in the cold 
blooded luring of Mrs. Larsen to the deserted spot in 
the Casa Verdugo hills, where she was beaten to death 
with a heavy weapon; in fact, two broken bottles of beer 
were afterwards found, to make way for the murderer’s 
romance with a younger woman. 

Larsen was hanged for his crime. In the minds of 
all of us who had worked on that gruesome, ghastly 


FRIDAY, THE THIRTEENTH 353 

case, there will always remain this unanswerable question, 
as a dramatic aftermath of its sensational elements: 

What part did the superstition behind that unlucky 
date—unlucky as the world calls it—Friday, the thir¬ 
teenth, 1913—found on the newspaper which Larsen car¬ 
ried in his hand on that fatal day, play in bringing to jus¬ 
tice the perpetrator of the awful murder in the sun tipped 
hills of the Casa Verdugo? Showing conclusively “That 
Crime Doesn’t Pay.” 


THE PASSING OF SERGEANT 
FITZGERALD 


P ERHAPS no time more apropos than now could be 
had to tell the inside story of the facts that lead up 
to the killing of Detective Sergeant John J. Fitzger¬ 
ald, just when Louis D. Oaks, Chief of the Los Angeles 
Police Department, is speeding on a train to take into 
custody the murderer of this beloved officer and returning 
him to Los Angeles to face trial. 

My acquaintance with Fitzgerald runs back to the 
year of 1908 or 1909. I was then connected with one 
of the local newspapers, and used to live out in the West 
Adams district. Fitzgerald was a motorman on the old 
traction line. I used to ride with him almost every day. 
As I would see him throw the juice into the wheels and 
notice his quick head work in avoiding accidents and ob¬ 
served his bulky six-foot frame and smiling Irish face, I 
thought what a good policeman he would make. 

One day, going home, I said, “Fitz, why don’t you 
get on the force? That pays more money than you get 
here, running the car. I think you would make a good 
copper.” 

“Do you think I could make the civil service?” he 
asked. “Sure,” I answered, “if you will see me at the 
city hall, I will show you how to make out the papers and 
help you get the necessary vouchers.” 

The very next day this chap called me on the phone 
and I went with him and did as I promised. A short 
time later, I missed him from the regular run on the car 
line and next saw him when he came to show me the new 


THE PASSING OF FITZGERALD 355 

blue uniform he was decked out in. Such was the start¬ 
ing of Fitzgerald, the policeman. 

A few years later, he advanced to the rank of detec¬ 
tive sergeant and many times after, we used to talk of 
how he first got started. For many years he worked with 
Tommy Zeigler, a veteran detective, and from whom he 
learned to become what we in the police game call 
“smart.’’ Later, he was detailed with Cahill, another 
wise “dick,” who was his pal. He worked with Cahill 
until the “call of the West” took him out. 

One of Fitzgerald’s premier jokes was one he thought 
he had on me. I was returning from San Francisco on 
the Owl one night, having just arrested in San Francisco 
a woman check forger, who had victimized about all of 
the big department stores in Los Angeles. I had a San 
Francisco policewoman with us. I quite naturally was 
putting forth all my officialness and dignity before my 
prisoner and sister officer, when Fitzgerald, who was re¬ 
turning on the same train, stuck his head into our com¬ 
partment and yelled: “Nick, did you ever work on a big 
case in your life? Most of your stuff is just little petty 
jobs, ain’t it?” I knew the Irish devilment was just 
creeping out of him as he ducked out of the compartment 
just in time to miss a good sized book I sailed after him. 

Yet, how strange, now as I think of it. These same 
words were the last words he ever said to me on the fatal 
night to follow just a few years later. 

Detectives Investigate Tip 

On the afternoon of June 18, 1921, I received at 
my office a tip from the underworld that a gang of crooks 
had cached under a certain kitchen floor in a cottage some 
seventeen packing boxes loaded with women’s silken 
under garments, valued at several thousand dollars, and 
which were said to have been stolen from the J. W. Rob- 


356 WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 

inson Company and Bullocks, big Los Angeles depart¬ 
ment stores. 

I called the central detective office, out of courtesy, 
and got in touch with Detective Sergeants Yarrow and 
Mailheau; also the State Pharmacy Board Inspector 
Peebles. Accompanied by Agent Wigginton, of my of¬ 
fice, we went out to raid the place, said to be located in 
a little cottage near Watts. We raided the house, but 
found only a happy little mother and father of a baby 
boy of one year. They were at the supper table. The 
father was cooing to the little shaver and trying to feed 
him a piece of sliced tomato handsomely draped over 
the side with a spoonful of mayonnaise. 

The little family was so intent on this little chap’s 
epicureal desires, they failed entirely to note us four 
officers covering them with as many guns. They almost 
fell dead from fright when they did see us and thought 
they were being held up. However, to make the story 
short, we found they were innocent and that there was 
no cellar in the place, and that it was the wrong number 
and that I had made a rotten mistake. 

I felt very cheap over the affair and between the kid¬ 
ding of Yarrow and Peebles, I wished I had kept my 
mouth shut in the first place. However, somewhere else 
in the files of high class literature there is a saying as 
follows: “If you fail, try again.” 

So I turned to the fellows while we were riding back 
to town in the auto, and told them I had another tip on 
some narcotic burglars. The gang who were supposed 
to be robbing all of the drug stores. 

One of our crowd said, “Nick, they’re out hiding in 
Maggie Jones kitchen cellar. I think they are drinking 
some of the same bootleg you must have had when you 
brought us on this bum “steer.” This wise crack sort 
of threw a damper on my detective genius, and some of 


THE PASSING OF FITZGERALD 357 

the coppers said they were going home and said “Good¬ 
night.” 

As luck would have it, Teddy Mailheau lived out in 
my district and he, Wigginton and myself were left in 
the car. I, still feeling blue at the fluke I had made, still 
wanted to hold my reputation at least with one of the 
gang, and so said to Ted: 

“Let’s take a run out to this address and size up the 
joint and see at least how things look.” He agreed, and 
Wigginton directed the car to 2392 West 32nd Street. 
As we drove in front of the house, we noticed a high- 
powered car standing in the street. In the darkened 
doorway stood the forms of four men. We had that 
irresistible hunch that comes over a detective sometimes 
that there stood the bunch we were looking for. 

We decided that we would drive around the corner 
and come up behind them and see what they were going 
to do. Perhaps we could catch them in the act. We 
would try. We circled the block, only to find upon our 
return the birds had flown. The house was dark. It 
was then after nine o’clock. 

We got out of our car and walked past the place hop¬ 
ing to pick up some clue; what it would be, we didn’t 
know. There was a light in the house next door. It 
poured out of the front room. It was on the corner. 
The curtain was up, and through the window we saw a 
man in his shirt sleeves. He was writing and smoking a 
pipe. He looked like a good and respected citizen; 
one we thought we could trust. We all decided to take 
the chance. It was our one best bet. Perhaps he could 
tell us of his neighbors. It was at least a good gamble, 
and one of the chances an officer has to take in confiding 
in some one when on a hunt like this. 

Mailheau rang the bell. 

“What’s wanted?” said the man as he slightly opened 


358 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


the door and turned on the porch light. “We are police 
officers,” Mailheau said. “Could we speak to you a mo¬ 
ment?” 

“How do I know you are officers?” the man shot 
back. 

I showed him my badge and said, “My name is Nick 
Harris and this is Detective Sergeant Mailheau of Cen¬ 
tral Station.” With that the man threw open the doors 
and said, “Well, if you are Harris, you surely should 
know me. I am Allers; I have been trying to sell you a 
car for the past three weeks.” 

Again real life showed up that fiction phrase, “Truth 
is stronger than fiction.” Sure enough. Allers had been 
trying to get in touch with me over the phone. We had 
never met personally. 

We were ushered in, but unfortunately they could not 
give us any information, other than that there were three 
men and a little woman and baby named Farley. The 
girl had red hair and the baby was about six months old. 

Fate again played its strange game. Just a few weeks 
ago we had raided an apartment house on South Main 
Street and there found a family named Farley. We had 
suspected these people were connected with a burglar 
gang. 

We had searched their rooms but found nothing at 
the time and left. We afterward heard through under¬ 
world channels how they had laughed at us as they had 
disposed of all the plunder before we arrived. They 
moved the next day and we lost trace of them entirely. 
The gang was supposed to consist of a chap said to be 
Chicago Blackie and one McCandless and one or two 
others. 

I wondered if this could be our much wanted people. 
I told Mailheau of my suspicions and we decided that in 
the morning Wigginton and I would cover the house and 


THE PASSING OF FITZGERALD 


359 


when Ted would come on duty at two the following af¬ 
ternoon we would get together and watch the place. I 
arranged with Ted to have him call me at a certain place, 
a house of a friend of mine in this locality, when he came 
on duty. 

The following day we carried out our plan as agreed. 
Wigginton and I saw Farley drive up to his house and 
leave a suit of clothes he had just returned from the 
cleaners. He drove awav. Then McCandless and Mrs. 

j 

Farley left, apparently to go down town. Later we saw 
the dark complexioned man go out in the back yard and 
then I knew these were our parties. 

I waited until two thirty. Ted had been delayed and 
had not called me. I went to get something to eat at a 
corner drug store, when he called my friend’s house on 
the phone, and was told that I had just gone to the cor¬ 
ner, but that a big van was backed up to the front curb, 
and it looked like they were going to move, also six fel¬ 
lows had gone inside the house. 

Mailheau took the tip and gathered together a squad 
of officers consisting of Detectives Yarrow, Tommy 
O’Brien, Inspector Fred Bowden of the Pharmacy Board 
and poor John Fitzgerald. 

By the time I returned, I found the officers had raided 
the place and arrested all of the gang, who were shooting 
craps in the parlor. All were taken to jail and not a bit 
of trouble had taken place. 

They left the wife and baby and her father in the 
house. That night we all gathered in the detective’s 
office for a conference. It was decided that we would 
divide the forces and four of us would go out to Watts 
and try to locate the right place, and redeem my failure 
of the night before. 

Yarrow, Peebles, Mailheau and I started on our 
party, leaving O’Brien, Bowden, Fitzgerald and a special 


360 


WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY 


officer named Brown to make further investigation of the 
Farley house in hopes of getting some more bottles said 
to have come from certain drug store jobs, and which 
would strengthen their case. 

Again our mission proved fruitless. I returned home 
about midnight and found a badly frightened wife await¬ 
ing my coming. “Where have you been?” she asked. I 
told her and she said, “The Captain of Detectives has 
just called me up and wanted to know where you have 
been.” She said she told him I was out with Fitzgerald 
and the other detectives raiding the Farley house, as that 
was our original plan when I left her. She continued 
that the officer said, “That’s just it. Harris, Mailheau, 
Yarrow and Peebles have all gone out with Fitz, and 
Fitzgerald has just been murdered by a Mexican, and 
they couldn’t get a line on us, or where we were.” Of 
course, she being awakened from sound slumber, could 
imagine only one thing, and that was that all the rest of 
us had been killed, too. 

I immediately left for the station and with the rest 
of the boys, who had also returned, found out what had 
happened. Fitz’s party had returned to the Farley house 
and, upon entering, found a young Mexican seated on the 
lounge, and when they placed him under arrest, he tried 
to draw a revolver from the front of his trousers. He 
was overpowered and handcuffed. While O’Brien and 
Bowden were in the bathroom gathering up the bottles, 
they heard the door bell ring, and saw Fitzgerald go to 
the door. As he did so, the first Mexican yelled some¬ 
thing in Spanish, and they heard a shot. They saw Fitz 
rush out the front door and again the stillness of the 
night was shattered by a volley of shots. 

By the time they arrived in the yard, they found big 
Fitz lying prostrate on the steps of Allers’ home, mor- 


THE PASSING OF FITZGERALD 


361 


tally wounded, several bullet wounds in his stomach. He 
died shortly after. 

Our search for the murderer then started. We first 
interviewed our prisoner and those taken in the raid that 
afternoon, and found it was Philip Alguin we were after. 
He was identified immediately by the parole officer, 
who told us he was a bad actor and had been in trouble 
ever since he was a kid. It was not until the following 
morning that we were first told by Detective Sergeant 
Manuel Leon where Alguin might be found. We raided 
the home of his father, or brother-in-law, only to find 
he had left at six o’clock. 

Since then this same fate has played to Alguin. The 
chase has become international, only to finish in the long 
run, in favor of law and order, as all great criminal 
cases do. However, every time I read an article in the 
press about this case, my mind wanders back to the days 
when I told Fitz to be a policeman, and now to think 
that in these later years, it was my tip that really resulted 
in this big man going to his death, and now, with the 
ending of this series of stories it seems fate has so or¬ 
dained it, that my last story in this book should be, “The 
Passing of John Fitzgerald.’’ Thus “truth is* stranger 
than fiction,” and once more am I justified in calling 
attention to my subject: 

“WHY CRIME DOESN’T PAY.” 

Nicholas Boilvin Harris, Chief, 

NICK HARRIS DETECTIVES, 

Los Angeles, Calif. 

Principal of the Nick Harris Professional Detective School 




















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DEC 1 0 192 


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